The Bones of Winter
The last day of February rolls out.
Chilly. Clear. Familiar.
Patches of snow. Patches of dirt. A quiet, bored energy prevails.
Dullness. Ordinariness. A day easily forgotten as so many other unremarkable days blur into one another.
But what of it?
The stars remain behind the clouds. Life stirs deep in the soil unseen by the naked eye. Velocity and time continue their kinky relationship. Nothing is truly more or less dull in this day, than what we so easily celebrate as the glory of a summer month.
February merely demands more of us, by offering less.
It prompts us to remain curious about the journey. Poised for the shoe to drop. Tensions of a waning winter build. In prairie cold places, this is also known as cabin fever build up.
It is a stark offering. Tired bare branches reach long, sinewy fingers; intricate silhouettes of their winter bones against the fleshy sky.
Oh, I do long for the warmth of sun on my cheek. My eyes yearn now for the pop of spring blossoms, like cotton candy for the retina. To unburden oneself from the weight of wool jackets.... the sheer lightness of being wearing one's own skin again!
Yet, February is the anchor that holds us steadfast to winter moments. An undervalued stillness. A quiet that regenerates us. IT serves to both prepare and amplify our joyful bursting forth into a different kind of feverish pitch-----
Perhaps February is an unsung hero that showcases so beautifully the power of patience. Stillness.
Mining the dream.
It is the bare bones of winter which gifts us the distinct and delicate birthing of spring.