My house is zipped up tight right now while the weather is nice enough to throw open every window. I grimace when another mom suggests a trip to the playground. My allergies are not as bad as they used to be but still. I want to be outside spreading mulch and trimming the shrubs and painting. So I do those things, and then sneeze and scratch out the ransom afterward. Spring would be my favorite season were it not for all the pollen. Instead I have a love-hate thing going with the air. This time of year I am missing part of our old neighborhood: the low place in the road on the walk to meadow. The creek crosses under and the spring peepers congregate at all hours to announce their urges to the universe. Nature's string section tuning up for another year.
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"The Frogs After Dark" by Robert Bly
I am so much in love with mournful music
That I don't bother to look for violinists.
The aging peepers satisfy me for hours.
The ant moves on his tiny Sephardic feet.
The flute is always glad to repeat the same note.
The ocean rejoices in its dusky mansion.
Bears are often piled up close to each other.
In caves of bears, it's just one hump
After another, and there is no one to sort it out.
You and I have spent so many hours working.
We have paid dearly for the life we have.
It's all right if we do nothing tonight.
We've heard the fiddlers tuning their old fiddles,
And the singer urging the low notes to come.
We've heard her trying to keep the dawn from breaking.
There is some slowness in life that is right for us.
But we love to remember the way the soul leaps
Over and over into the lonely heavens.