light

It must be February 11th. The sky is only light gray, and yet today I opened all the blinds I could. Light. I need light. If I were a plant, I would be droopy. I am not a plant, and yet I am droopy.

I have been here before.

There wasn't a lot of light in D.C. But there were walks around Dupont Circle, and to the Library of Congress, and the conspicuous absence of mittens. And there was the quiet joy of whuzzing in a cab, looking up to see the memorials white and bright against the dark morning sky.

Outside is fifteen inches of snow. It gets heavier and heavier by the day. These are not light piles. I wish they would go away.

I am teaching a night class this semester--I drive home at eight. On Tuesday, when I hit the city limits, it occurred to me: In two months, it will still be light out at this time.

What have I been up to? I am wrestling with winter-student malaise. I am trying to count the syllables in a haibun. I am learning the nuances of ISOs. I am thinking of Minnesota, of Louisiana, of Texas. I am rubbing the dark circles under my eyes. I am remembering what it was like to stand on top of Goodnow Mountain. I am thinking a trip to a greenhouse is in order. I am ready for spring, for light.