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One Last Barefoot Dance

It’s official, Spring is here.

Scrubbing the floor with the radio on,

I was surprised at how sad I was to hear the news.

It felt intrusive, like the trumpeted arrival of

a chatty little debutante in a strapless dress.

Winter, I’m going to miss you,

my dowdy, woolen friend.

We are such a comfortable pair, you and I.

When I needed to listen to the shy new thoughts

budding in the shadows of my grief

you spread your thick white cloak

to muffle the static of the world

and the noisy reconstruction of my heart.

When I needed to shout,

You raged and howled with me.

When I was empty and cold

you lowered the sun to shine in on me.

When I was beyond tired

You convinced the night to arrive early.

Now Spring flounces in,

with her invitations and her fresh cut grass

and I can no longer hide behind your

sensible pretexts:

your slippery roads and icy paths.

I know you must go.

I‘ll wait for you to return.

Until then, I’ll wade back into

the stream of life

and let the currents pull me along.

I’ll plant seeds and pull weeds.

I’ll paddle far out to sea

and catch the cool breezes.

And when the leaves

have relinquished their bright glory,

I’ll spin and skip one last barefoot dance

On those golden decks.

I’ll put the garden to bed

and carry away the porch chairs.

I’ll stack wood,

and sweaters smelling of cedar chests.

So when at last you arrive,

carrying with you the breaths

of some far exotic land,

I can wrap you around me

and listen, and shout, and sleep.

Written in 2010 for my caregiver website, "Don't Lose Heart."

Copyright ©Jean Fogelberg

Please do not re-post or print without express permission.


Sandra Paul
Sandra Paul

Seasons really do match (or compete with) our emotions, don't they. Whether new or recurring. Along with the passing of time. I couldn't have demonstrated or written it more palpably or beautifully than what you have here, Jean xx Kindest, Sandra Paul (NZ)

Jean Fogelberg
Jean Fogelberg

Thanks very much, Sandra.

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