Springtime Come

How I anticipate Spring, even with believing it’s existence present; the women consuming the streets with fresh, bare legs and scarves atop, fewer layers of clothes, putting the old tennies in circulation, the people are out, most noticeably the couples – everywhere, on each corner: hand in hand, arm in arm, locking lips while waiting for the light, totally inescapable. While talking with one of the painters who live in the apartment below mine, on the front stoop outside, he pointed across the street to the cathedral at the bush beside the door already with blooms of white adorning the green beside it and then we finished our cigarettes to escape the cold and retreat to our respective workplaces. No, Spring is come despite the persistent Atlantic winds bellowing down the avenues forcing the slightly heavier coat and a light scarf. Everyone knows that Spring is arrived, even if a fight against the weather remains or an umbrella to come a few days this week. That doesn’t slow down the quick beat of fresh life, a spirit taking over the masses, a kiss from the wind as she blows across the face, even if bitter, a reminder of the sounds and smells and faces and tastes of spring. “What is poetry? -It is what the early Spring is saying about the deaths of Winter.” A beat, a movement, a change – all the same. A street corner, the caress of the sun beat, a couple dozen faces held high – the Springtime. A turn of the ear for each living thing, a meditation on the colors: green, blue, pink, violet. A hundred more footsteps past irreproachable buildings towering as high as ever, visibly subject to the weather. And what of the life that is enthusiastic about life and enthuses others on or about or inside of life? The weather bears them down too, but not withstanding! For the weather is in our favor soon, if not now. When? But today the rhythms of life continue in their glory as is the only possible day to continue. So as the wind patters down and the layers become fewer, the tennis-shoes pulled out from under the coffee table and the windows remain open in every establishment and apartment, the street-noise echoes further and parties of people gather on rooftops or by fountains running fresh with water or in parks filled with the newly returned colors reflecting the jubilance of those surrounding themselves with them: deep in thought, deep in pollen-season, deep in richness of that that is; the event that comes but once a year – Springtime.

The Cave

The cave is filled with pictures and posters and calenders and books and pages. Many pages filled. More than I have ever filled. The coffee table I write atop could not be imagined without the spirals and legal pads and notebooks and memos. All of them empty canvases yet to be filled or sit as a reminder, already full. The futon I sit on has lasted our wear. The wood beneath presses through and a pillow is on top for extra support. It is not comfortable. Still, this is the only place I crave to be in while outside. My bedroom has become the place I sleep. The place I undress and redress. The cave remains my sanctuary. With the onset of a new year, the heart of winter still before us, the doldrums have set in. Life has become burdensome to endure. The winds remain unchanged. The cold still is bitter. Snow has not left the streets for weeks. The same people trudge through it. The same cars drive on it. The sidewalks are salted. The curbsides are devious with excess snow piling and exhaust remains, a clear footstep, icy water stands. Once work is done, people are forced to bear the weather and take to the streets. A heated seat on the subway is coveted. Tucking in my scarf to remove it later.

The middle of the week. The errands are done. Only priority gives to leave. To face the cold again. The cabinets are full. The refrigerator stocked. A box full of tea. An empty bear once filled with honey. Empty wine bottles sit in window sills. Cans of soup line the kitchen. Boxes of crackers stay in the pantry, removing a sleeve at a time. Bags of chips are folded over. Canned food lay stacked in rows. I have prepared myself for hibernation and nothing would give me more pleasure. The rent is due. The bills are here. Sales tax, income tax, federal tax, city tax, state tax, indulgent tax. Paycheck – taxed. Cigarettes – heavily taxed. Faucet water – ultimately taxed.

The bus to the train to the avenues to the restaurant. The specials today are: the lack of energy I have to recite them. Excellent bottle of wine, sir. The producer – point. The name – point. The year – point. Open the lever, drop the corkscrew, insert and turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, turn. Pop! A try sir. Very good. With my right hand hold the label out and pour to the right. And pour to the right. And pour to the right. And pour to the right. Clear from the left x4. Polish glassware, reset tables, plastic wrap over the sugar, vacuum. The train to another train to another train. Gloves on, remove, light cigarette, replace. Turn the key. Embrace the dimming light. Enjoy the record playing. Sit on the pillow-covered futon. Write.