When the Ice Yields


I’m thinking of spring.

In years past I have not felt the compulsion until late February or early March. Yet here I am taken by this snapshot from last May. The deep blue of feathered petals and the soft greens of emerging life snuggle up to me like a cat slinking by with her tail swishing my ankles and purring with pleasure.

To be able to relax into the warm embrace of the sun, is what I crave.  My bones ache and my flesh prickles at the crisp, dry chill that will not allow the frosty pavement to melt. Its icy attitude sits staunchly, refusing to budge. I yearn for a cool rug of spongy moss under my bare feet, screening an armada of busy microbes and prolific vigor.

I imagine my feet finding purchase on the smooth rocks of the brook as I wade and breathe in sharply at the still cold water rushing by. I sit and I listen and I rest my forehead on my knees and I dream of the vastness beyond my frozen senses.

Christine Jacobson