Spring
Green is the color of spring. It is the air and the earth and what’s in between. It is a nursery rhyme: a child sing-songing and dancing over the dead. The ground groans and shifts and births the muck rot stench of skunk cabbage, a sachet of aching anticipation from hidden quagmires, shaded from the chartreuse sky whose blinding light and bruising breeze invade the flesh. Dampness creeps in through the skin. There is no inoculation--no shot against the pox of digesting stimuli in too great amounts, too quickly. Night delayed, day prolonged, the trees grow big and round and smug in their soon-to-be viridian perfection. The birds rise early to shriek with apprehension.
Green is the color of spring. It is the air and the earth and what’s in between. It is a nursery rhyme: a child sing-songing and dancing over the dead. The ground groans and shifts and births the muck rot stench of skunk cabbage, a sachet of aching anticipation from hidden quagmires, shaded from the chartreuse sky whose blinding light and bruising breeze invade the flesh. Dampness creeps in through the skin. There is no inoculation--no shot against the pox of digesting stimuli in too great amounts, too quickly. Night delayed, day prolonged, the trees grow big and round and smug in their soon-to-be viridian perfection. The birds rise early to shriek with apprehension.
No comments:
Post a Comment