Blogged Out

The bulbs are coming up, but I’m not. That’s how I feel. It’s sort of warm, but I am stalled. The edges of the world are crisp, and I am under the dirt, not even sure I have sent up a single green shoot. Where is my head? I thought I was waving but maybe it was all a dream?

What is it? I envy people their children. Not always, just this moment when some sort of melancholy has taken hold and I have almost wept to miss the niece and nephew toddling around on an egg hunt. It is obvious I am not spending enough time with real children, to so sentimentalize them.

What lurks in the green grass?
Here in Suburbian the poison flag markers have all raised up along with the daffodils.
This morning, Easter morning, I was treated to the sound of chainsaws in my backyard. The neighbors cut all the arbor vitae that lined the fence between us. Why? Why? Now we can stare at each other. Who wants to stare at strangers in close proximity? I wish I could plant tall trees at the pace the neighbors are cutting theirs down.

Here is my confession: this morning it was like the man was using the chainsaw in my head, the noise was so loud I could not block it with the fan or shower, and so I almost ran to the porch, leaving my towel behind me, to stand there naked and yell at him, the little kids behind him, and me screaming, “Happy Bleeping Easter to you too! I hope you are cutting that down to build a cross so I can come over there and nail you to it.”

This scenario crossed my mind. I thought it would give those children an awesome Easter memory, much like the kids in the Midwest this year who were on an egg hunt and instead found a dead human body.

Suburbia makes me who I am not.

But I have been here so long now; I don’t know who I am.

And I think I am blogged out. This may be it.
I don’t want to blog about suburbia, I want to get out of it.
I hear the poetry of the world calling me/ I hear the larger poem of the world calling me.