Looking out the dining room window, the sun reflects off the last irregular mound of wilting snow. Revealing brown, flattened grass from underneath. It is March. Frost still greets my morning gaze, but the birds sing in preparation, in renewal. I can hear it in the crescendo of their chorus. A melodic invitation to wander outside. To warm my face; to melt the layers of grief that have accumulated for far too long.
My skin is ashen. The compulsion to pick at every bump and blemish has left my body with healing scabs and muted grey scars. Outward symbols of the toxicity within. The poison, yearning to escape. Closing my eyes, the warming air allows a full intake of breath. Holding on for just a moment, and then, releasing, slow, and drawn out.
The urge to dig in the earth with my hands is overpowering. To knead its cool, crumbly texture is restoration for my soul. To be a witness to growth and life and beauty, means halting. It takes focusing through a smaller lens. Drawing my eyes to a clarity, unseen when I look at the wider world. Too much distraction. Too much sorrow. Here in the dirt, I find my own patch of Heaven.
I gather my shears and cut away at the overgrowth. Limbs that have blocked my path or sought to entangle my head, should I stand upright. Dead ends that impede the potential to fully bloom. I do away with them; adding fuel to the fire pit, come time. It feels good. It looks clean. Ready to take on a new season. A new line.
This is where it is at.
The mound of snow still lingers. Now hiding under shadows that protect it from the sun. I smirk. For I know, it is only a matter of time.