ah, it's almost may. i blink and the magnolia trees are blooming and i blink again and everything's dead. the beaten path through downtown leads me past the electric shock of forsythias and the strange, spring snow of cherry blossom petals whirling through the air. peter and i found a dead mallard near the tracks so we surrounded it with flowers. we foraged ramps by the river with james and larissa and my hands smelled like garlic for days.
the jumble of words i've been working on since my return from the desert has been packaged and bound, released into the world. last night i read at a space downtown with a noise band from hamilton and a local acoustic kid from cambridge. everything reverberated within glass. some of my friends are leaving for the summer and some are suddenly more present and everything is always shifting, always, it doesn't stop, and this is ok.
it's spring climbing season. the limestone is so cold that it turns your stomach when you touch it, white knuckled and shaking. i've already left blood on the escarpment, already made claims on grades that seemed out of reach last year. progress is slow and impossible and then sudden, like a landslide. if it happens in my climbing it happens in my life, too, and so echoes on and on the affirmation that life mirrors climbing (or is it the other way around?)
routesetting is hard and painful and i feel it in every small part of my body. it is rewarding and satisfying in a way that i've not known before. i still make coffee and it still feels okay. graduate school looms in my future, though this can still be changed. summer is shaping up differently than i expected but i'm unfazed. the seasons roil and time is an antagonist. all i can do is close my eyes and walk into the coming days.
(if my new chapbook is something you want, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org)