Spring, a poets sucker punch

Every writer goes off about spring. And as an audience in the North East we are suckers for it. We drink the poetic discourse about spring like that shit is liquid morphine. Its so easy. We are vulnerable after a season suffering. We have expended extraneous amounts of energy in order to shape a way to live our lives in a climatic condition that says die.
    So here we are in spring. We have the astrological equinox. A balancing point of daylight and darkness. The rocks of our stone wall are poking their heads above water, and gasping after the long winter submersion. The earths dreary eyelids that live around the base of the trees are slowing opening. On the first day of rain the tips of the trees color the possibility of life. We are suckers for it.

     Both spring and fall act like powerful elixirs inducing amnesia in our life experience. Spring starts flowing through our blood creating a heady high of warm sun on the skin, and the groovy beat of rain falling and snow dripping. Before we know it,  summer is happening at the possibility that winer ever existed seems ludicrous.
     Fall functions as our hallucinogenic tincture. It blow out your brain so you cant even remember that things were green. And before you know it, winter is slathered all over the landscape, and the idea that summer ever existed is ludicrous.
   I will take my elixirs gladly. I will sit on a shoveled off deck in long johns and jeans, soaking in thirty one
degree temperatures, and drinking beer like it is nude sunbathing season in July. The minuet there is a path cleared to the grill, I will fire off  when it is 40 degrees and cloudy, and pretend it is a Memorial Day barbecue. I like my seasonal elixirs. I love that each season is erased, and each new season has a blank canvas to be an original for the first time.