The temperature finally rose and it started to rain, melting the snow that has been sitting in plow banks along the roads since December. It’s mostly gone from around our house too, only a trace of icy white remains, trim like a lace collar. The melting snow and rain have saturated the ground into a soggy mess. But at least the hose unfroze so I can rinse the dogs after walking them. Charlie picks up grit like a Swiffer, she’s so low to the ground. I had been rubbing them down with snow for the last two months, leaving dirty streaks in the pristine white blanket covering the lawn. Just as ashes smudge the canvas inside me, my own fire having burned down in the cold.
All of my senses feel muted, like the colors outside. Brown and grey, faded green and bleached rust are the hues I see when I go out with the dogs. As if someone put a sepia film over the shuttered sun. Charlie runs out in front self-importantly, her colors blending in with the landscape. But Hank’s ebony coat draws the eye in punctuation. He walks next to me like a necessary comma. The damp earth is the only fragrance I smell. The woodland creatures are silent, invisible. The air feels still and cold to the touch. The end of winter tastes metallic. My blood moves sluggishly. I am waiting.
We need the rain so I try not to begrudge it, even as it blurs the edges of things, reduces the horizon. But rain is cleansing. It purifies things after the initial mess. Like tears following sorrow, washing pain away. I am learning from the land. The earth needs time to incubate. It needs warmth, and watering, and space to breathe in order to grow. In order to create spring. I feel myself thawing as I watch the winter melt.
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