The romantic.

The sky was a yellow ombre while I chased the neighbor's ducks out of our crocuses this morning. I stood in the dirt in my blue knitted wool socks as I shooed them across the road, and I thought, spring. It felt so good to say that word. To think that thought. To know.
Spring. It is actually spring. 

I wished this morning that I understood more than I do. I would like to know everything if I could.
How to speak with my hands. Which mushrooms to scavenge for in the forest. Where the sweetest little bookshops are. How many miles are between me and someone I don't know. What a star really looks like. How to fail. Why the minor prophets are minor.
Who called it spring.
While I was still rubbing sleep out of my eyes and standing outside waiting in the street wearing magenta Hunter boots and wanting Fran to come out the door so I could take her to the bus, I thought, who called it spring?

And then, with all the divine nature that Christ could muster towards me this morning while my eyes were still part-ways closed, I breathed out. And I said,
He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
and I thanked God with a small voice.

Because he called it that. Somehow, I just know he did it.

I read Keats well into the dark last night. Under my sheets and blankets with a tiny light.
I think I may be becoming a romantic.