Memoirous

Leafing Out   Everything is leafing out While it only seems like a week ago The trees were bare And the jubilant buds far off Today the blossoms are a memory and Everything has leafed out   Sitting out While only a week ago A bitter wind blew and the trees shivered Today the verdant canopy is thick And we sit out, basking in the sun   Every bone in the body relaxes in warmth And the eyes cool in the shade Next week will be better As we leaf out, laugh out, lean Into summer  

 Yesterday, in my sunny courtyard it snowed the gauge read 77℉ and we had our shoes off and pants rolled up, arms out to the sun, while all around white petals drifted speckling the deck   A few weeks ago, we had actual snowflakes and the backyard was covered in grey sooty white the daffodils were brave to poke their head out   Today, I track the crushed petals inside, sweep them up like parade confetti and toss them outside to join the other reminders of spring

Not sure how much I’ll be blogging this week. The Festival of Faith and Writing starts Thursday and I leave Wednesday by bus to get up to Grand Rapids. The big news: Spring is coming. After the historic rainfall—4 inches in 24 hours—and intense backyard flooding, we’re down to a 4 foot in diameter puddle that the sump pump is slowly trickling down. We can’t seem to keep the 2-year-old out of it. There are multiple clothing changes throughout the day. But the tilt of the earth has shifted, we’re over some kind of hump. I believe. Today I noticed magnolia trees about to burst forth. The forsythia bushes are leafed out. The tree outside my door has hard little buds on it. I took a little over 2-hour bike ride this a.m. It was 43 degrees when I started out 70 by the time I walked into our courtyard at home. I needed to get some miles in as I’m hoping to ride home from Grand Rapids next Sunday. I write hoping because every time I try to train it’s either snowing, raining, or hailing. ...

In the winter I’d come home from work, fix food, and go to bed. These days I stay up later. I’ll have a tea and take a walk in the yard or around the block—depending on the moonlight. The blood flows faster. The senses sense. Spring. I cup the cup of hot tea and listen—wind ruffling the top of the pines. The ground is still cold, mossy wet but there’s something there—a hidden green.

Friday night to Saturday morning—apparently it rained. I was up under the eaves fast asleep. I awoke early to write and found the world weirdly silent. I opened the door and even without the drip drip of rain sensed wetness, the smell of water. I grabbed a headlamp which did nothing to penetrate the darkness, but I knew: the backyard was flooded as happens in the spring. Vernal ponding because of the amount of clay underground. We’re also in a little bit of a bowl. The last owners left us with a sump pump—for good reason. We’ve needed it in the spring and after large rain events. This time we had both. When the sun came up, dreary and bleak weak, I was able to see the edge of the pond licking the fire pit only feet from my Tiny House. At just that moment my daughter called to say there was water in the basement. They have a sump pump but it must’ve failed—just as we have a sump pump in the backyard and at the moment it too must’ve failed. I texted our neighbor to say we were bailing ...