Gray smudges of days have passed, days I’ve not been moved to write anything more than a to-do list. That’s me - always much ado about to-do. Even now, I force my weight onto the stirring stockinged feet folded under me. Teeth gritted, I scold myself, “You will not move from this chair until you write something, anything. Do not even think about posting a photograph.”
These days between winter and spring are the ultimate limbo. The snow has thawed from the ground, but the forecast is still off. I wore my downcoat again today, legs shuddering under the skirt that mistook now for its season. There’s a Counting Crows song where the lead singer bemoans everything he needs but doesn’t have, including a raincoat, a phonecall, a free ride. That part about a sunburn - I totally get it now.
Days like these, all I want is what I’m not getting. (I wish I just needed adequate sunlight, too). My guess is that the frayed saffron heads of daffodils feel the same way. I want to be out of in-between, growing-into and in the meat, the heady blossom, of a new season.
that’s every counting crows song
You have a point. I’m referring to “Raining in Baltimore.” I vote it Best Song To Think About Slitting Your Wrists To While Realizing You’re Too Cowardly To Actually Do That; Besides, There’s Always Drunk-Dialing.