REMEMBERING SPRING

Nights in spring are often irritatingly somnolent, burdensome. The clouds drag themselves across the sky like palanquin bearers wearily carrying a fat,fair moon-queen.

She caused no such weariness. She was light as eiderdown. Just as wispy. Just as elusive. Warm.

…..later, he would remember, she would call him names. Names of love, anger or saccharine sweetness, sometimes revealing. Names mouthed sometimes in a language garbled by an onrush of urgent,immediate ecstasy. He wouldn’t understand, but would respond nevertheless.

A nip on the neck. A tug on her hair. A message sent between clear and clouded eyes.

Nights in spring can be restive . Like a herd of deer drinking water at a stream. Like flocks of starlings, chattering away on window sills .

…..later he would remember, her restive hands. Her hands were the color of freshly dug up earth. No, the color and the smell of earth after freshly fallen rain. Her veins like rivulets, her veins like lithe, bouncing, nimble streams of water rushing up into her arms and disappearing somewhere beneath her shoulder. And he would remember his fingers, like restive, unsure, wary deer drinking from these streams, fore and middle finger, and sometimes mouth, tracing their course, up,up,up to where they disappeared beneath her shoulder.

Nights in spring turn quickly into an inky blackness, but if you do not get scared, then they put on a show. The black slowly gives up the stage and allows a very deep blue to take over. Just at the intersection of midnight and dawn,a weary traveller may rest his head against a patch of the bluest, most peaceful piece of sky.

….later he would remember her hair. Not like the blackness of a spring night, but the blackness of the deepest ocean. Peaceful, yes, but rumbling with a barely concealed churning. Waves undulating, enveloping, enervating. He would often lay his head on this slightly foreboding bed and smell and listen to the ocean underneath and all around him.

Dawn arrives soundlessly on the heels of nights in spring. There is no sudden burst of sunlight forth from the east, no sudden waking up of the birds, no sudden jerk of reality to bring life to Life . There would only be an opening up of small apertures of incipient light in the cover of darkness here and there, and then a rushing together, a stretching out, as the light emerging on one side of the horizon espied it’s love on the other side, and yearned to meet, to be complete. To be whole.

….later he would remember,how beyond the ocean of her hair, would lie dawn. Her face, when he would turn it up, would break out, like a small,radiant aperture of light. There would be no sudden shock of wonder, no sudden gasping intake of air,no sudden descent into dream.

He would look at this face, this sliver of dawn,and stretch across the horizons to meet it.

…..later he would remember,she tasted like spring. Now there was simply a wounded exhalation of cold, a sigh of want , and softly uttered curse words.

FIN

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