Sunday, August 7, 2011
There’s been intermittent spring-like wafts in the air but I’m still thinking winter. I know that before I am ready, the warm/warmer/blisteringly hot will arrive – boisterous and squinty bright. Florally spring things are pushing up through the earth and after that, the summer sun will throb its heat and cicadas will shrill a relentless tune.
Soon I’ll get into the groove but I do like the winter quiet. I like the bunkering down, the introspection, the blanket-grey sky, the easy on the eye.
My Middle is the treasure hunter. I excavate many of his findings from the bottom of the washing machine, or soggily spun into the crevices of a damp, newly cleaned pocket. Occasionally, his treasures travel in cupped, protective hands: escape the ordeal of the pocket; survive the tumble of an entire school day.
These are the finds that whisper of seasons long past,
Their decay a fragile, intricate perfection.
Meanwhile, the Smallest has declared herself resident Snail Whisperer.
The winter roses are altogether thankful.
Of the seventy or so snail-lets residing on our kitchen table in jarred, semi-captivity, there have been three serious bids for escape. Each of these renegade snails have met with an entirely accidental but, nonetheless, heartbreakingly unfortunate end.
We gather for another snail funeral and bury the remains under the winter roses.
And so it goes.