the rain they said would be here by noon was here when i awoke at 8, the tiniest of raindrops dotting the sidewalk and jeep windshield, turning into rainier rain quickly. my first thought was that i needed to take out the trash before it grew even rainier.
the cold they said would begin to move in by noon is moving in earlier. yesterday's almost 80° is gone; already we are half that and headed for colder. it will be in the 20s tonight, with possible sleet and other winter wonders. and so it goes, that back and forthness of winterspring i talked about last week. the last of autumn's leaves are still piled under the monkey grass, christmas has come and gone, january long past. pear trees have bloomed or, like ours, are beginning. earlier this week the tulip trees lost their blossoms to a night measuring 27°. r.i.p. sweet blooms, and thank you for painting last week pink.
yesterday morning and it was march, and humid; february at long last gone, i awoke to green grass in splotches all around the house, opened the bedroom blinds to see green on the ground for the first time in months. weeds, wildflowers, paperwhites clustered in even fatter bunches. it was quickly warm, doors and windows opened, fans turned on almost all the way to 11. by mid afternoon we were sitting in the yard, blessing breezes, vodka for katie, coke and ice for me, discussing plans and pasts and futures. by late afternoon moving into darkness, we had changed bare feet for shoes and bare shoulders for sweaters, and the owls in the magnolia tree behind the house were awake and calling to each other.
there is soup cooking in the slow cooker, leftover vegetables, ragtag ends of celery sticks and carrots, extra okra and onions. the kitchen window is open despite the colding air, and the sound of raindrops plopping into puddles confuses me, makes me think the soup is boiling over. skye cat is curled in front of the fire, sleeping. i have been rereading barbara kingsolver this week - the bean trees on my kindle, but back to real paper for the rest of her books, since, after all, i have them, right up there on the bookshelves. i am back in tucson when i read her, smelling the air after the rain - at least for some books; i will not reread the poisonwood bible, no matter how wonderful it may be. it requires more strength than i have.
and so today is quiet, the sound of fire and rain and the turning of pages. the sound of prayers for the pear trees and cold winds. the sound of endings and beginnings.
wednesday was a tiny fever and too early awake
and cold air outside the closed doors and windows,
and valentine roses that needed to be tossed.
tossed into the creek,
the dark red blossoms fell through the even colder air;
not one rose landed pointing true north.