Inches away from the picture window, I sing in the dark. Music seeps into the room around me. It’s raining a chilly soft-pour; the parking lot looks like obsidian glass.
I dream of noon on a parkbench, breeze-complete.
Spring seduces, temperatures undulating. Droplets thick with a threatened freeze hang in the air, in no hurry to turn to rain or colder snow. I risk the chill, wear a whisp of a nightgown; my feet tingle with the concrete below.
My recliner cocoons me as I warble phrases. Warmer weather concerts outdoors can’t come soon enough. Robins will herald natures’ theatrical season, crickets invite other bugs; I will search for a gingham tablecloth suitable for picnic lunches.
I revel, alone in the intimacy of Spring. Here under a blackened sky, I lie in sweet anticipation. Never have I been so grateful for allergies and other signs of new life; like a joke no one else quite fathoms, I enjoy this quiver of an icy-wet wind.