Watching the wind swirl the snow outside the window, through the boughs of a Norfolk Island Pine and the billowing water vapor of a bubbling humidifier, I sit ensconced on the cozy conversation couch, having the kind of conversation that a person can only have with themselves. Nina Simone sings this gorgeously plaintive song, and while it once represented spring to me, and all things to me, this morning it takes on a different glow.
The quivering desperation. The feral want. The essence of survival, hanging on the human whims of the heart. A middle-aged man who feels like he is already in the winter of his life, who has felt that way since his childhood. And winter never rests for long.
LOVE ME, LOVE ME, LOVE ME, SAY YOU DO
LET ME FLY AWAY WITH YOU
FOR MY LOVE IS LIKE THE WIND
AND WILD IS THE WIND
GIVE ME MORE THAN ONE CARESS
SATISFY THIS HUNGRINESS
LET THE WIND BLOW THROUGH YOUR HEART
FOR WILD IS THE WIND
The Japanese Umbrella Pine holds heavy clumps of snow in its branches. I haven’t had a chance to remove the Christmas fairy lights from its hold – every time I feel the least bit of ambition to do so, a storm seems to come and make it impossible. Perhaps the universe isn’t quite ready to let go of Christmas yet. Seems a bit unfair. The rest of us are ready to move on, to rush into spring. And so I work to embrace winter a little while longer.
YOU TOUCH ME
I HEAR THE SOUND OF MANDOLINS
YOU KISS ME
WITH YOUR KISS MY LIFE BEGINS
YOU’RE SPRING TO ME
ALL THINGS TO ME
DON’T YOU KNOW YOU’RE LIFE ITSELF
LIKE A LEAF CLINGS TO A TREE
OH MY DARLING, CLING TO ME
FOR WE’RE CREATURES OF THE WIND
AND WILD IS THE WIND
SO WILD IS THE WIND
There are tight little buds on the Chinese dogwood trees. They wait for the slightest nod from the wind that things are warming. Such a nod will not happen today or tomorrow. It’s best that they not begin to open just yet. Starting spring too quickly can be dangerous. Anyone who has watched the petals of a jonquil torn apart by ice and snow would share such dire concern. And still we want for it, still we long for it, still we eagerly anticipate its arrival, like a child waiting for the arrival of a favorite relative.
With the wind and the snow, a winter garden has sprung into bloom. With its little drifts and crests, the front yard has produced a lawn of crystalline wonder. The rhododendron across the street carries blossoms of snowspray, and the brown umbrels of the Sedum in the backyard are topped by snowy caps. The wind will scatter them soon enough, capable of creation as much as destruction.
