Death of the long winter

There is a whisper on the wind today, a secret carried by unseen currents, intended for those longing for change.  Although my ears are not old enough to understand the language, the land has interpreted its meaning for me. 

I see it in the evening breeze as it gently caresses the long grass and stirs up the sweet smells of life. 

I hear it in the song of the late meadow larks, as they alone herald the setting sun. 

“The long winter dies.  They say.  The long winter dies.”

I watch as the bass rise to the surface of the still pond, fiery in the setting sun, to hear the news. 

Deer move to the edge of the trees as silent as shadows to stand alert, majestic silhouettes, ears tuned to the message. 

The crickets sing from dark places, praising the coming change.

“The long winter dies, the long winter dies”.

I can feel it in the beating of my lover’s heart, my head upon her chest, as its icy prison cracks and weakens. 

I can see it in the tightly wound buds, swelling defiantly, and ready to flower. 

The shaded stream, like rippling black obsidian, sings in the rocky shallows.

“The long winter dies, the long winter dies”.

I hear it in my waking dreams, filled with sunny greens, and punctuated with laughter.

Branches that have long blocked the winter sun, lye broken on the ground, grey bones no longer host to clinging ice.

“The long winter dies, the long winter dies”.

Love spreads fire like summer lighting, burning away the bleak mists, and renewing the dance of life.

The land is fat with child.

Spring stirs.