three two one.

a hailstone hellstorm,
heavily hitting and hurting our hale hero?
nice.
happy second day of springtime.
the party is clearly over,
and the winds have brought another change our way.
little see-through tic-tac confetti,
frozen fleaspecks of icy cruelty.
cold and hard and loud.
the pitter-patter of pea-sized pellets an' that.
i had to stoke the mutha-lickin' fire back up again.
(with tiny sparkle embers from last afternoon)
no match for my unmatched firestartin' skills.
and no lighters either for that matter.
sometimes,
some sh!t is so simple, but so dope.
like hail.
like woodstoves.
like Folk Life in the woodsly goodness.
there are some things that just seem to amplify
all the hot fiery hottness.
those things are out and about right now.
it's hard to keep pace with my mornings.
they're faster than i am.
before too long,
it's time to go to work,
and after far too long,
when that's finally over,
it's dinner, a book, and bed.
what the F*?
it's springtime.
the balance of day and night has shifted.
day is winning for the first time in six months.
so of course,
it's cloudy as a mutha-ucka;
even with multiple advantages,
the remains of today promise rowdy clouds,
and a dusky noontide-
so what's the difference really?
we saved daylight a week ago;
we gave it another 'nother headstart yesterday;
and already it's taking a sunovab!tchin' sick day.
c'mon.
it's not as if there's a reset.
there's no do-over anytime soon.
we only get the time we get,
and not one split second more.
so why do those moments have to be dark and dreary?
from the looks of it out there,
i'd say that the lugubrious lack of luminescence
seems compulsory.
that's great news.
i was hoping not to cast a shadow during the daylight hours.
or at least, to exist primarily in semi-permanent shade.
bright folks need dim ones for comparison.
good news needs bad news.
the sweet needs the bitter y'all.
but still,
all this shadow-seeing is for the waterbabies.
punxatawney phil can go suckle, y'all.
i want that bright spot.
the halo.
the aureole.
the secret silent circle of light.
instead there's smoke rings.
ghost rings.
stormclouds.
spirits. memories. winds. change.
i can only hope that the blazing beacon
of worthy really-real life is something akin
to a last lonely lighthouse.
bold, fortunate, aglow with epic hottness.
long nights, hard times,
half empty hourglasses,
lit up and exposed in the baskable blaze
of a will'o'wisp of foxfiery freshness.
come crash on my shores;
never quiet, never soft.....