First promise of spring.
waiting for an Odyssey.
The soft arch of Helios becomes warm on my face and for the first time this year, the window is fully open and for the first time this year we see the lambs bounding about the fields. Spring comes glassy eyed from slumber, perfumed in salt, earth, warming leaves and freshly watered herbs, clay. I, old aged skin turning over as the earth starts to birth herself anew. In the ballads of dawns I wake the first light through the curtains. The early morning is silent and I do not understand what it tells me. I watch the dim shadows on the walls. These days I am a shapeshifter. I vanish. I appear. The late winter breeze speaks in myths. I vanish. I appear. It holds the roots of the hair, cold palms pressed against the scalp. And it takes me, leading me through the paths in a dance only it knows. It spins me around and glides me through the narrow alleyways. Past the open empty fields we waltz, the new spring grass growing ever higher in the gaze of Helios. The breeze takes my hand and we run through the empty side streets, past the budding fig trees and the magnolias starting to open. It takes me to the shore and I can go no more, I tell it. It wades further out tempting me to come– temptation holds the lines of my palm and the sea laps at the edge of my shoes. I walk slowly home. These days I am a shapeshifter. I vanish. I appear.
The late winter breeze speaks in myths. Metamorphosing into the gentle current of spring. It resides cold on the shore edge. The sun is sweet like pooling honey on the lips. Fields stand sunlight. The new blooming trees are fresh found ruins, gods watching down. Gold flecked leaves slowly starting to appear. I vanish. I appear. Spring gives us a taste. The winter is not ready to leave. I vanish. The evenings, now longer, reside in deep blue tones. The late winter breeze speaks in myths. I appear.
The doves visit the garden searching for the food my mother leaves for them. The magpies come too, adorned in their deep greens, ocean blues, pearlescent feathers shimmering in the morning light. The doves come and sing gently on the fence. Walking back and forth. Waiting on the pot of the fig tree, heads bent down to the roots. I, flesh, understand. I flesh, too also pray at the roots. I who am a shapeshifter. I vanish. I appear. I wish to feed the doves from my palms but instead I feed the tale from the dirt.
The late winter stillness speaks in myths. The spring is half child and half ancient. She walks with open arms. She blooms. Spring is coming and from the shore I see Venus standing waiting on the rocks.
Beatrice.
Beautiful ✨