In spring, I sour. I brood. I’m broodylike a brood of jellyfish. It’s the seasonaldepression working against me. I’mthe pale son of October who’s too sensitiveto pollen. But not this year. My favoritecolor is air and my favorite wordis myth. I wake to the taste of wonderand pray the sun will see me flourish.I may be soggy with sleep and the wispy,leftover fragrance of night jasmine,but let me be luminous. Strut with the fawns.Collect sticks shaped like antlers, gatherantlers dropped by February’s deer. I seethe glittering magnolia trees, their lacqueredleaves and coral seed pods hanginglike pendulums, and amongst them, you.Touch the thumbprint of fuzz in the hollowof your throat. Eyelashes we kiss and makewishes upon loosed to the wind. And yetI’m not due for a miracle. A prince smoochesme and I turn into a frog. I swim amongreefs and get stung by sea nettle. A rashthe shape and size of the Florida peninsulaappears on my arm. See where wild springhas flung us? The year evaporates briskly.But you, my umbilical, weather the pollen.All of this is to say, I’m always lookingto have it both ways.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash