Intermittent Sun

The intermittent sun of early spring.

Tiny lupines, some still closed, with green and purple stripes, some with ten pointy petals and soft bristled fuzz like an adolescent cactus.

Mountain Princess tomato seedlings that chase the afternoon sun in their egg carton home, moving from the knock-off Persian rug to the blue paint of the fireplace apron.

Kids flying kites in the backyard. A rush to pick up the dog poop before someone slips and ruins the perfect flutter of color lifted by the spring breeze.

Time to read poetry and listen to music. Rumi and John Prine. Mary Oliver and the Highwomen.

A morning walk in sneakers; conversations with a friend that aren't muffled by scarves or face masks.

Headless barbies next to someone's muddy footprints on the vinyl floor.

Pink ranunculus from the grocery store on my desk.

It's a strange metaphor, but I feel like a leatherback turtle preparing for the struggle to beach and lay eggs. It is a monumental effort, but she is almost there, preparing to expel the 100+ eggs, cover them with sand, and wander away. It is late afternoon, she's almost there. Evidence of winter is gone, and we have survived, fecund, weighed down but vital.