Spring in Söder-T

Circa March, 2010.

We grew old and tired in our bones beneath the snows.
That was the way of it.
Place without Time, Time without Place.
As the water dripped down the pipes from eaves upon the roof,
and Spring passed us by in our solitary winter-death.
Gray upon the roof,
and upon the sea,
and upon the land that stretched as far as the near wood,
where mystery still dwelt.
And the snow receded,
like tired hands clawing for something,
that was further from their grasp every morning.
And the road to the bus stop was muddy and smelled of manure.
This stays with me.
In my nostrils.
In my memory.
And the little church on the hill above the trees,
was more than white in the setting sun.

All this came away,
the way mud ran down your leg,
in the shower,
that was never warm enough,
to hold back winter’s chill.
Or the way the streams run,  down the furrows in the road,
towards the creek,
by the bridge to the horse pasture.
So do thoughts run freely again.
Small, the faint sounds of rushing water
and droppings,
and little splashes.
And everything everywhere is melting, running, splashing, dripping, muddy, and smells of old lives breathing new air.
All this in a moment.
In the single head turning towards the sun.
In the deep, deep lungful of breath,
that you never want to release.
Here, come to the no place,
without time,
with endless days passed,
with endless days to come,
in no particular order,
spent living,
was Spring.