Sublimation is a sign of Spring; that Ostara is approaching. Snow-melt ascending. But this year, the mists have come weeks earlier. As have the Red-winged Blackbird – another herald of Spring. I look out upon the wetlands and ask, “what will we do?” “Adapt” is the only reply I receive.
A steady drip drip drip
heralds the oncoming change in season
white ice-crystals sintered together
release their hold from branch and body
falling to the sodden ground beneath
the sudden decrease in weight bounces the branches skyward.
a rainy day in reverse
gray green forest against a gray blue sky
Water vapor appears as wraiths in the woods
wandering the eternity of mud season
ready to gobble up all sound except
the dripping of icicles melting into Spring.
warm enough to send the snow heavenward
rising as a thin film between the worlds before
evaporating above the crown-line.
white tendrils sinuously slinking through the woodlands
as if the Mists of Avalon were retaking the landscape
Echoes of whisperers breathing in breathing out
fog smelling of apple and decay
(we are) finding ourselves lost
in the rebirth.
You must not sublimate
turning your mind from this world
You must be a force to be reckoned with
a spring freshet washing the habits of winter away
renewing the land with the minerals of your blood, sweat, and tears
rejuvenating this garden with the rains of your hope and hard work.
Do not cast off your comforter only to
evaporate into the grind of gadgets eating your mind
on the saturated Earth
and dig your hands in.
©2012, Arianna Alexsandra Collins
Arianna Alexsandra Collins, naturalist, poet, writer, and wild edible enthusiast lives in Ashfield, MA.
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