Monday, March 25, 2013
Snow In The Spring
On April Fools' Day, 1997, when I was living in Boston, it snowed a foot. I cross-country skied to my cafe (the owners being purists and thwarted philosophy PhDs were rude if you asked for low-fat milk, and I liked that; I wanted direction). April in Paris. Bread and butter. Hugs and kisses. Spring snow and I adore the fat short cartoon temper of a spring blizzard because it's ineffectual, blustering, shortly to be over; it has those bozooka eyes like a cartoon wolf looking at a lady, but it has faltering grip on the monkey bars of the playground. Look around. There's the bud of a tulip taller than the accumulation that was the talk of the radio last night. A robin scraping away. How obvious is it winter is done in the angle of the sun on the pine branches that sag deeply like boards before the anticipatory, wonderful, loud bouncing release of the diver's weight.