that's mrs. mediocrity to you

And I’m hungry for my garden and sun on my skin and bare feet and sundresses. March moved past in a whirlwind of wind that tore my to-do list right out of my hands and sent it flying to faraway places.

I sat still, holding books and yarn, seed catalogs and fabric, pencil and mouse. My mind feels empty, clean-slated and wandering, these four walls have been traced and memorized enough to be taken for granted. The fire still draws me near, but in a different way, now. Less for warmth than companionship, and I listen for the sound of distant drums.

All the pieces are in place except the queen herself, and she keeps us all waiting with no compunction. I know she is busy threading storm through lightning needle, whipping up concoctions of rain and ice, spilling tears and howling fury as she moves through the season of change. I bow to her strength and beauty, even as she tries my patience.

I hear roots whispering just below the surface, planning parties of revenge on winter’s cold shoulder. Soon, grey will be forgotten, and white will hide in shaded bed and lost corner. The moon tries hard to reassure, patting arms and tut-tutting tiny phrases of comfort, as Mars and Venus play coy across the sky.

March is February’s redux, a second chance at learning silence. Or patience. Or winter’s puzzle.

I watch the bold red cardinal feed his mate a bit of seed and admire his sacrifice.

Hunger is a hollow word, echoing hope through empty chambers.

Life moves forward with each turn of the earth.

My hands grow idle and I watch the show, smiling as the sun parts night’s black curtain for yet another encore.