WRITING & REALITY?: A Drive on The First Sunday of Spring

Forsythias, oh Forsythias! Greek gloriously named seers, yellow-mouthed mini-trumpets of Spring. Blond Daffadowndillies from brown bulb roots grow, after applying Spring Clairol they are ready to show. Gone, I see, are the lavendar crocus lips that quenched the thirst of the earth. Treebuds are swelling like twelve-year old girls, maple red, lilac green, willow gold. Spring dancing oak leaves, escaped from the rake, emerge from their flower-bed hideouts. Scorned heaters, storm windows, old blankets, crying in sympathied piles by the road, like another winter will never be here? Nice tush on the man on the porch roof, a good day to repair the shingles he thought. Carloads of relatives visiting relatives, bearable when not cold-weather confined. Colorful churches with pastel Easter outfits, in case no one noticed last Sunday. Sleeveless goose-bumpled arms of impatient teenagers. The elderly, smarter; dress proper in lighter weight woolen without hat and gloves. Southern Baptist Choirs of birds of diversity trilling joyously the Songs of the South. Vroom-vroom in 6-packs go Harleys; fright-wigged women cling to the backs of their gods. Blood-swells from warm weather and foot’s heavier now, driving fifty up curving hills that bring me back home. Vroom-vroom.