It's coming, you can feel it in the air that's too warm for the season. Hurray for global warming!
The dog likes to spend his mornings outside on the chaise longue. Alternatively, once he's warmed up, he'll lie on the concrete in the shade. Then it's back to the chaise longue. I asked the broken arm where the dog slept--with him on the bed, on the plaid cushion that we bought the dog in an orgy of dog-related spending, or with his sister on the couch (it's her preferred spot, and I'm just tired enough of mothering to have given up the protest). Apparently, the dog likes to switch around, or, as the broken arm says, "he rotates."
Other signs of spring: bare legs, white clothes, a sense that the house needs cleaning (though no concurrent urge to clean it, at least not yet). It's March, not February, even if it's still winter. Fewer layers of clothing altogether. Asparagus at the market. A letter from our organic farmers wanting us to sign up again for a share in their upcoming harvest. Packets of seed at the store.
No new poems, and why not? I'm trying to get out of my semester alive, that's why. But this summer is free, free, free. Once you hit May, there's not a thing on my calendar, and it is my goal, my pledge, my aim to make sure it stays that way.
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