If there is a god, she would be here now, at the tangle of winter and spring. Where the world waits for its endured hungers to be satiated, when the earth begins to rumble with life. I wait here too, in silence, sensing the changes in air and light, sensing that this is the time for resiliance.
Some animals can’t take the switch from winter to spring. The thaw is too much, the rush too full, they crumble under the weight of it all. I think of the moose bending, hooves scrabbling on frozen ground, unprepared for the melt. Even the noblest creatures aren’t safe.
I strain to recall springs past, robins showing up like a saving grace, dripping eaves and a tinged-warm wind at my cheeks like a blessing.
I remember picking up worms after rainstorms, their wet dirt-flecked bodies wriggling in my palm. I transferred them from the sidewalk to the grass so they wouldn’t be squashed beneath my classmate’s careless feet. I couldn’t save a moose, but maybe I saved a worm.
The years seem to keep rushing by, like water sluicing through my hands. The time of the Equinox seems, by contrast, to stand still, to draw breath, deciding between wind and rain, snow and sun. I long for the silence to last a little longer, for the shifting to make me strong, for the water to swallow the shore.
If there is a god, she would be here now. Waiting, too.