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March 2 — A
celebration of the sun. I have been walking on frozen snow for two months,
the frailty of snowflakes built into awesome cliffs and drifts. Now it
rots, disintegrates, dissolves, and moves to make water, to make streams,
to make rivers, to the power of floods and oceans. I especially noticed
this morning as I left for work that clumps of grass were beginning to
reach above the snow in Clement’s pasture, making brown areas in the
fields of white. Later in the day I saw icebound puddles grow and reach out
to join other water, then gain speed and sound as they rushed off in the
parade for the Gulf.
March 5 —
Started home from work early with the sun coming in through the rear glass
and flooding the space around me. What a good feeling to relax and feel the
weather and not have to brace against the cold, the dark, the wind. Kids
walked in puddles, watching their feet move in miracles of unending water.
The complete acceptance of this new weather, a swelling, a rising pressure
in the temples of living things. It was hard to keep a smile back with each
discovery of a new sight released from winter’s hold. March 6 — The
brook beside the house that couldn’t make a sound all winter is now
talking to me from under the willow roots. A collar of white hangs along
each bank, and water traces along under those chambers to make a stronger
echo. Liquid sounds emerge from choir lofts of ice. But each night the
songs are captured, the sounds withheld. Cold and stiffness return.
March 8 —Tonight
it’s growing bitter cold again, a reminder that winter is not ready
to move away, but sunset was later and sunrise will be earlier. The sun is
winning. Tomorrow it will warm easily.
March 10 —
Went to bed with mist changing to light rain. Before I slept I saw an
unnatural flash. An arc was struck and I heard the muted sound of first
thunder shouldering its way through fog. Rain increased and made a melody
in the eave spout.
March 12 —
Today I opened the doors to other parts of the house and let the heat from
the stove into cooler rooms. I can afford to live in the whole house, at
least for today. I wanted to open the windows and let all outdoors inside
— but not yet. Maybe in a week or so.
March 13 —
Planted tomato seeds in peat pots to begin the growing season. Soon
they’ll rise and lean toward the window.
March 15 — Today
was such that I was never warm. The chill wind cut through my garments as if I were lightly clothed.
Even though the temperature was not freezing, I never really warmed. In the
evening, by the stove and lamplight, I found the first comfort of the day.
March 20 —
Sometime over the past week someone has been stealing the snow. I had not
noticed, but it is mostly all gone. How could those enormous piles and
drifts, that awful amount, get away so silently? In return we’ve been
given mud. It’s very warm out now. For a while it is ideal, but I
know that before the day is over the wind will blow. These days, this
month, is as changeable as a girl I once knew.
March 25 —
Before I slept last night a moth fluttered against my window, trying to
gain the light of my lamp — the first insect, this butterfly of
Chinese paper alive outside my window. An insect as frail as dust, and I,
have survived another winter.
March 28 — I heard
the first frogs by the pond this morning. In a while, geese answered and
put their reflections on the water. Daffodils are pushing through the sod.
Tulips are close behind. March of March.
Roy L. French of
Virginia, Ill., is a longtime contributor to Illinois
Times.
This article appears in Mar 13-19, 2008.
