I’ve been immersed in a bit of violet ecstasy.
The springtime is in full-throated, melodic trill, warbling out flowers and leaves in an erotic rapture of blossoming and unfurling. It isn’t hard to succumb to that siren song. Shedding the dark cloak of the past winter, I find myself responding to the wild and surprising call of oceanic love, with mind, body, and soul erupting with poetry and passion and the relentless desire to connect.
Commingled in the flourishing rapture is a rainfall of tears, enough to fill the deep, wide ache I carry with me at every moment. So well-watered is this constantly-twinging ache, I expect it will extend its own tendrils skyward and prepare to set fruit. These stretching, growing pains keep me awake at night; the fruits it will bear will be unlike any I’ve ever seen. But oh, how the tears burn on my face, how they scorch the ground as I lean over to harvest the violets that bloom right now.
These are impractical, lunatic days. I cherish them with astonishment, dazed gratitude, weeping great splashing love-tears, thrashing, becoming still, becoming blissful, enfolded in universal awe.