It's night-time and thundery in rural Virginia. Well, not rural rural, but in the small town of Lexington where my friend Lesley teaches at Washington & Lee University. I'm staying with Lesley and her family between now and Tuesday, and will be visiting her class and giving a talk/ poetry reading on Monday.
Unseasonal. The weather here in unseasonably warm: thunderstorms are not due until later, and plants can't work out if it's time to bloom or not. Like inexperienced dancers in the wings of a stage, excited and dressed to perform but knowing the cue hasn't yet been given, a couple of people being pushed out and being seen by the audience even though another scene is theoretically in play. It hasn't snowed much in Toronto this year, and a man on the flight from Charlotte NC told me that scientists are worried about what the warm temperatures might mean for bugs whose population and spread is usually kept in control by freezing each year during winter time.
Seasonal. Today is the 24th of March, and Matiu is now seven years old. Seven! Amazing! I skyped in last nite (which was, of course, the 24th at home) and sang with the others and watched him blow out his candles. Hard to be away from my dear chicken for his birthday, but great to get to see him and hear from him too! Birthdays are such seasonal affairs too... a quiet cycling through the year: Aunty Martha, Megan, Matiu, Amy. And so on, through the family until we're back in January and it starts all over again.
Seasons give our lives rhythm, either by following the pattern we have come to expect or, by deviating from the pattern, confirming our expectations.