36 tagged with #weather
Still the Cruellest Month
The tips of my shoes pull in water even when it's not raining, from moisture wicked up from the pavement, from puddles that I cannot resist wading through. I squish when I walk. They are light and will dry out fast, it is okay.
I'm reveling in the fact that I can walk around in a t-shirt and get drenched and not feel cold. It is the moment before the worms have thawed out enough to crawl for the surface, so I can stride across the sidewalk without having to look for them. Millions of green specks are needling out of the ground, and I don't think they know it will be below freezing again soon.
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04 April 2014 13:53
Stubborn
I tie my key into my shoelaces so I don't have to carry it in my pocket; I've lost things through pockets before, especially small, dense objects that sit against a seam until it gives way. I can trust my ability to tie a knot that won't slip. If I couldn't trust my knots, I wouldn't climb on ropes.
Every time the skies open the minute I set foot outside, I laugh; my ego enjoys the feeling that I have been personally singled out by the weather gods and that in spite of everything, I enjoy it.
I press up the hill and my shoes slip on the rocks, and I whisper to myself, this feels meaningless now but it will make you a better person later.
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03 April 2014 14:56
Skies
"Look at the weather," I told myself. "It's beautiful. Put on your shoes and go running."
The moment I left line of sight of the building, the rain started, and I burst out laughing on the spot. When the rain grew, I wheeled back for my jacket. I didn't bother taking it on my way out, thinking that the skies wouldn't dare open on me today, but I love when I am proven wrong. Who am I to think otherwise?
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19 March 2014 19:26
Weeks
The world is anxious in anticipation of spring. I can feel the skies trying to break through. There comes a cautious string of noise from the same bird that has been trying to wake up the leaves all month long.
Deer footprints cross my front lawn, one set of delicate holes punctured through the heavy, wet snow, little parallel lines drawn diagonally across the slope. They shoot towards the alleyway. I wondered where she thought she was going.
I have to remember that 45 is not the same as 65, but I'm guilty of the same anticipation. I put on a t-shirt instead of a wool base layer for the first time in months, and nearly wipe out on the ice that slicks down my driveway, the layer of water on top disguised by shadow. I laughed when I stepped outside, accustomed to feeling as if the weather is actively antagonizing my commute, and instead encountering the gentle whisper of almost-spring.
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19 February 2014 10:19
