In the dark space of worrying about tomorrow; an anxious place too small to cuss a cat, I awaken to the slightly disturbing sound of late February rains…the ice flows in chunks out of the gutters and down to the frosted grass. I wonder if the edge of the roof will jam up and leak.
It did that a couple of years ago and there remain two delicately shaped brown spots on the ceiling in one of the upstairs rooms. It was a half hearted attempt at leakage…just enough to remind us of who and what is in charge.
The old strands, the tired spirit of spring is resting out there, somewhere. This is the teasing February thaw and March dawns this Wednesday. The longest month of the year, thirty-one days of ‘will it rain, snow, sleet, thaw, flood or ice?’ spreads out in front of us.
Some brave robins flit in and about. One morning they scurry around the large tree by the porch, then three mornings in a row they are gone and the tree is silent. After strong coffee and some dilly dally rain watching, it seems that some music will serve a good purpose and soon various versions of Amazing Grace and idyllic Irish lilting tunes pour out over the kitchen. It is after all, almost March.
The light in the window is beginning it’s slow change. There are more frequent hints of gold and yellow and something akin to sage…even for a bit, I catch a glimpse of it on the glass pane…a surge of color before everything goes grey again. Yes, I think ‘O, Danny Boy’ is in order.’
‘I feel so Irish now, I do, I do’ he sings as he comes down the stairs. He tips his head back, ‘but I’m not, I’m not’ and he laughs heartily. I look at him. ‘You’re just jealous as we tell better jokes than you do’. I hand him a heavy ceramic mug of coffee. He laughs again. ‘Yes, you do! But we’re still going to Spain first before we go to Ireland!’ He takes a swig of coffee and sits down to watch the rain. ‘Oh sure’ I reply and look at the glass, now suddenly sage again in a fleeting surge. ‘Oh yes’. And the glass winks back.
The same ship, the same ocean, the same fierce winds…only the height and measure of the sails differ…’who bids the mighty ocean deep, it’s own appointed limits keep…’
690 Saint Paul 