We sat there. Just a couple of guys out on the bench looking out at the fields. Commenting simply about how nice the sun feels on the back. Heating us up like a steaming blanket.
I prefer the heat, I said.
Me too, he said. My wife likes the cool weather by the coast. Me I like to be baked. Feel the tingling heat on my skin. Jump in the water if I get to hot.
Out in the fields the Echinacea is just coming up. Astragalus. Mother Wort. Lemon balm. All rising up. The spring sky and the wispy clouds come across the valley like a lithe young woman with creamy skin and pale blue eyes and a plump baby on her hip. I see her now. Coming down the path she always comes down from the Southwest. She is right in front of me. Instantly I recognize hope rising in me like a refreshing bright tonic pulsing in my veins. She is coming and the hawk’s cry creases the pale blue heaven of her hair. Dancing beings spin upwards above her body and paint some pink in the pastel sky. She is new and young and in her age of making babies. She has a glimmer. Her eyes are innocent but they have a knowing that only mothers have. I give birth. I make life. Things come forth from the very center of me. What can you do?
We men of winter wait. Blown away really. Spring is young and pretty like she is. Spring is hopeful like she is. Spring is busting with attitude like she is. Like Bring it on. I’m full of it. Watch me. I am the promise. I make all things new. We talk about the weather. We look up at the sky, we feel the wind and we wait for rain. We wait for the ground to be dry enough to work. We are not idle. Surely. There are things to do. But inside we are just killing time until the pale one with the blue eyes rises up and dances the coming. We wait for the warm breath to exhale and for the blossoms to blow whispering from the trees pouring out the promise. We wait for the tender juicy blackberries that will cover the fence line. We wait for the chestnut leaves to unravel like butterflies from their cocoons and for crisp apples and juicy pears to come out from their secret hiding.
Oh sure we play with the babies and tickle their bellies. We ooh and ah and comment on their cuteness. But really we wait. There is nothing we can do to push her forward. She knows there is a time. There is the perfect time. When out of waiting and silence the new ones come. And there is nothing we can do. So we wait in the shy spring sun. We faithful men of winter. And there is a comfort in the waiting.