The Two Days

The first day it was hazy. As I walked down the street, I could feel the warm dew collect on my forehead, my cheeks. It kissed at my neck while the warm breeze toyed with my hair. My breath was short, but not fatigued. The buds on trees appeared overnight—green specks kissing branches that had shivered into rebirth; it took six months.

Songs seemed to awaken other songs. Chicka-dee-dee-dees baited drink-your-teas. Tweets inspired chirps.

The clinking of wind-chimes harmonized with the cracking of ice freshly placed into a freshly-brewed iced tea. Sorbetto melted just as hitting my lips, tinting them flush pink for the rest of the evening. Incense wisp’d around newly sprouted jasmine leaves sitting on the window sill, turning towards the sun, welcoming the heat with a loving embrace.

Lazy naps under the hum of the ceiling fan became acceptable again, on that day.

The second day was crisp. The sky was not nearly as blue, but just as welcomed. Rain had kissed the grass and asphalt the night before, with drizzles visiting spontaneously throughout the day. Petrichor and geosmin re-flooded their niches—both on the earth and in noses. The tree bark, which was a comforting dry, was suddenly alive with a range of mossy hues. The specks of green from the day before hung heavier, more vibrantly and invigorated from their day long bath. The stone that was grey turned warm; little forests of moss branched from their edges. The air was cool, but welcome. Noses and cheeks turned pink, but only from the rain. Water dripped from buildings, roots, and boots. Another song, though not as sharp, lulling me to sleep on my walk home.

Lazy naps were still acceptable.

It was spring.