I should have suspected that reading dark and delicious poesy to March was not the best of ideas. I mean, I was certain that a month stuck between the nippiness of winter and the not-yet-bloomy spring would yearn for dark and spooky. Well, I was wrong and then some… the moment I read T.S. Eliot’s
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain”
March smirked creepily and began storming like crazy. I saw little sense in arguing with a month known for its madness, so… I slipped into something warm (about 13 layers, since I’m a complete coward when it comes to cold weather) and accompanied my Piano Man on a walk.
Can you see him in the darkness of my eyes, keeping me warm?
We were out for about an hour. This is a big deal for me. If you’ve been following my health bitching saga, you already know that this is my first time playing in the cold since the winter of 2013… when my lazy immune system rebelled and decided that keeping me warm was too much work to bother with. Today, um… yesterday, I guess, we made stag snow angels… and cackled in the woods like the deliciously terrifying maniac we can be.
I’ve never cared much for snow. My sexy Caribbean blood doesn’t mix well with the cold. But 5 years kept from jumping wildly all over the fluffy stuff left me longing for half-frozen toes (I could promptly defrost in a hot bath). Also, I think bare branches look freaking pretty dressed in the last of winter.
I should find some bright verses to appease March. Some Swinburne? “March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite…” Um, mayhap not Swinburne *cough*.