I got off the bus at the Kirkland transit center today, hunching my shoulders against the hail, and there was a scent something like absinthe or gingerbread made with wild ginger, a thing that curls and tangles in spice and wildness. Lavendar warm and spicy, cherry silver and sweet, and something like lemon, and something like the new soft green pine needles in their buds, and something like rose-hips or smoke or cinnamon. Unearthly and wondrous, and strong enough to linger still on my fingertips.
And then I saw that the gutters were thick with hail and torn blossoms, crimson and white and flame-orange and the soft new green of pine needles. The hail had torn down and destroyed all the new buds, all the leaves curled silent and sleeping.
And all I could do was stand there with all the colors of spring crushed spiced and wild at my feet and ice caught pale in my hair, and wish devoutly for a poet's gifts. There are probably times I have wanted them more badly, but not many.
poetry envy