The pussy willow – which is not really a pussy willow, but
just an ordinary tree with buds that look like they are, brushes against the
glass as if aching to come inside, the mist outside collected into drips from
its tip at the end of its six inch branch, rubbing hard again and again against
the window.
It cannot be ignored, and will not be denied, full of relentless
desperation, a slim bit of early spring, too many months ahead of even the groundhog,
an echo inside of me as I sympathize with its plight, this need, this urgency,
this throbbing I feel as well, aware of the chill, the rain that should be
snow, the seasons as confused as I am, aching for the propert time when such
urges come naturally.
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