“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.”

-T.S. Eliot



I wanted to help someone…someone I had passed by in a hurry…thinking that I, being better off, if only slightly, had an obligation. When I returned, he was gone; and missing him made me feel suddenly alone…

And now, I’ll never forget him.


How perfect that it rains in April…the annual washing away.

The toll winter extracted is a bleeding ache for renewal.

How perfect too, that each renewal is assured…world without end… but April is a sad and somber looking back at the wreckage left behind…

Winter takes something out of us, another year, another survival…another beginning.

The Azaleas are blooming, and the air carries the scent of the sea.

The trees are alive with the birds that sing my mornings…robins, sparrows, woodpeckers, and redwing blackbirds.

 There are children playing in the river…some game of make-believe. From the tone of their screeching excitement, their pretending has very complicated rules that get broken frequently (replaced by new rules).

I often throw the ends of bread to the squirrels in the forest, and watch them cavort…foolish seeming creatures…and getting fatter daily on a carbohydrate diet. I don’t suppose I’m doing them any favors.

It’s not true that they never fall. I’ve watched them take a flying(not) squirrel dive, reaching for their target limb, only to fall like some cartoon rodent in a belly flop on the forest floor, then get up and stagger away in embarrassment.

But a new and mysterious visitor has shown up. A single Raven will sit at the edge of the clearing and stare disdainfully at the silly spectacle between us. It’s an enormous bird, five or six times the size of the squirrels, but they don’t seem threatened. The squirrels continue wheeling the bread in their greedy little hands and stuffing their cheeks like slum kids with eight brothers. The bird in black cassock stands in the corner, casting a baleful eye on the assembled revelers. I must admit that the reserve which he brings to the party is brilliant in counter-point, and more in keeping with the stately forest in which they live.

I have shared in the lives, trials and sorrows, some comic, some desperate, of the many writers I read, and wish I could give them all one minute of unburdened bliss, to carry them through the rest of the year.

The one who walks, the Northier, the writer, the reader…the green eyed beauty, and the left-leaning. The lonely heart, the unerring eye, the loquacious and sad, hopeful and nearly, but not quite despairing. The cookie queen, the indian, the fashionista, lovelorn and beautiful…the sloppy and fastidious, the photographer, the nearly normal, and one crooked wreck of a man.

Every writer has enriched me…just so ya know.

This is the lingering part of winter…the stone gray of the shorter afternoon.

Let us imagine that the light is longer, and warmer,

And kinder,

Let us believe that the Raven is a good omen,

Judicious and dignified,

Whose flight

In wide and simple circles, surrounds

 Our wayward hearts with hope.

Happy Spring!!!


~ by theoxherd on April 9, 2013.

2 Responses to “Fulfillingness”

  1. once again an essay of great range, a multitude of messages, and more than enough power.

  2. Very straight forward messages of the heart.

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