in Just —

The world is mud-luscious, full of piracies and marbles, puddle-wonderful indeed. The sky slapped me into awareness today, its vibrancy a reprimand to appreciate and savor, to throw off my winter gloom and revive. The boke buds outside my home whispered dreams and the daffodils nodded in cheery agreement.

If only I could throw off the lame, goat-footed balloon-men, divorce myself from my own inner days of Spring。三寒四温 (san kan shi on), the Japanese say, but for me it means three days numbed, four days warmed by a fever inside I increasingly fear.

The season is upon us, Grendel reminds me with his fire-dragon’s cynical mirth. (I always reread my favorite books, in times of need.)  Its worn pages, the faded scribbles caged within the margins comforts, a reminder of alternative me, alternative lives. The choice we all have, as Beowulf tells him in the last pages of his life.   A fitting book to read in just spring.

Two days ago it snowed; today the sun burnt off our jackets and gloves, coats and hats abandoned on the withered grass like wildflowers.

I am a frozen bud, suspended between bloom and possibilities.

(The kanji on the top is an old Japanese word for courtesan: the first kanji means flower, the second one is a meld of two meanings:  demon and  trail-blazer/pioneer.  The title of this post for those of you unforgivably illiterate in American poetry, is the same as e e cummings’ poem on ambiguous spring. I borrow it here, for, ambiguous me. )

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