It was January and my winter-worn Spirit longed for a reprieve. Bones that had caught the chill of a city’s unrelenting grey concrete winter, asking skin to know the warmth of daylight again. It started out as feet too familiar with the way sidewalk ice restricts the toes, metacarpals and tendons begging to relearn the freedom of east-west sole expansion.
Calves resting quietly inside the length of boots, quads awakened by the frozen denim wind. The Southwest was echoing around the contours of my shoulders, the lure of foreign European cities calling to my mind, like Tuscany in early May, with thoughts of cappuccino’s in cafes, otherworldly stone churches, and all that quaint red cobblestones still had to teach me.
It was expressive knees in February, finding freedom in jeans with holes in the knees, breathable again, while still calling for warm woolen socks to cover shins.
Scarf pulled up close, and still the sunlight tracking long & low over snow-covered ground carried with it a thread of promise. The way the white makes the world around you shine that much brighter. Casting your soft shadow up ahead as you move along.
I think there’s something to that, the way being in it is turning you into something larger than yourself without you even knowing. Until you step into the slight curve of Spring, and remember how good it feels to shed everything you all of a sudden no longer need.
Purple tulips in March, ready to rise up from the creases of your elbows.