When my alarm shrieks before the sun and
I want nothing besides to
I drag myself out of bed anyways,
Down the gentle road, across the hectic parkway (not before looking both ways),
I have no plan, but I’m moving. I move faster, and faster, and faster still as a glance at
The lively leaves of the oak marking two miles seem to mock me as I arrive behind
Why wasn’t I on time (2 minutes ago)?
It’s not that hard. It’s not like I have any reason to be tired
Legs protesting, lungs filled with rage and drained of oxygen,
I run and run and keep running.
What else can I do?
Murky water dots my legs, goose-bumped and pale.
I bounce left, then right to dodge a melting pile of snow, and nearly land on one wilted
A spot of color
Eager to be the best it could be, it didn’t realize that flowers bloom later
Because, how could I forget? It’s early April.
Fifteen years of elongated winters taught me that New England weather isn’t kind.
It isn’t spring yet.
Each year a couple blossoms will blossom too early, overeager about the sole warm day
These flowers will rot, they’ll decay, they’ll wilt and they’ll weaken,
But others beside them patiently wait until spring is not a
Strength, vitality, a future to be excited for.
People do say good things come to those who wait.
Maybe I can afford
It’s only April.