I Never liked Wednesdays

I never liked Wednesdays.

Wednesday sounds like bad news,

feels,
like a tired sickness in your gut after a long day of hard work and bad food.
But, as I've grown older I've learned
not to let pre-associations and notions
affect my outlook like that.

Because clean water still falls,

from the branches of the birch.

And from the evergreen coat of great firs.

And those drops, beads, learn to love one another.

And learn to feed the fern,

keep the moss wet

and the birds' thirst quenched.

The wet earth doesn't care what Wednesday means.
It just breathes slow and deep as always.

Maybe I long to feel the smooth river stones on the soles of my summer-hardened feet,
maybe I long for the wet-sweet air,
maybe I want nothing more
than to shake the snow from your branches,

and let it be spring.

Like the love you feel...
at the first sign of spring.
The instinctual kind
the, "This is right." kind.
When the fear, or dread, or melancholy,
or whatever sick thing winter does with your head...
-when it dissolves into the smell of life come March and April.

That, baby, is what you do for me.

Like the sweet, plum-colored, crocus pushing its innocent bud up out of the earth.
Like the birth of a spotted fawn,
and the sight of it getting its land legs.
like a litter of puppies.

Sweetheart,
I am a spring chicken.
And you
are the light rain.
I am the sand
and you
are the sea
You,
are the sun.
And I am everything that goes green,
out of thanks
for your light.