Thaw

Published April 11, 2017

Striations of light stretching across the river’s skin, the spines of trees bending towards the opposite sides of the bank,
their reflections quivering below, grass still mottled with snow.
I stand on the path, deciding which way to go,
inhaling the rawness of April air, tinged with the coming thaw.
I stare down at a patch of grass, pale and trampled as straw.
I feel just like those blades of grass, flattened by winter,
now suddenly exposed to Air and Light,
wondering how soon they will begin again to thrive?
Will their greening be gradual or burst forth all at once?
Spring, frothing on the fringes of the forest, its freshness trickling into my nostrils,
as I peel a layer off my trunk, my jacket sleeve grazing the ground,
my limbs suddenly lighter and free,
feeling the Air throb all around me, soothing my creaking spine.
I listen to the river flow, no longer caring which way I should go,
just grateful to be standing here, listening to this familiar sound,
that was buried beneath the snow,
but still the river breathed beneath its frozen sheathe,
like the blades of grass and the branches of trees,
patiently awaiting the thaw.

Sylvie Kalenda
April, 2017