Restless

Cabin fever.

The pre-season of my discontent.

Change.

I need change.

You know it's going to happen; it will get warmer. The grass will green up. Insects will be flying through the air in search of nectar buzz and the earth will loosen as I put trowel to it.

But for now I've got my face pressed to the glass, steaming up my point of view, as my lower lip juts out in pure pouty dislike of this lack of movement. This adhering, lingering, demi-winter.

The crocus popped up but refuse to open their blooms.

They're like some irksome metaphor for life right now, exact demonstration of what could be but patently isn't. On the verge but not even a toe over the line into being.

Time to shut the computer down, go outside in a moderate bundle against tepid weather and shake my fist at the sky.