Hanging with my Peeps

by Kerry Blair

I regret to inform you that I am simply too ill to blog today. I have a fever. Other symptoms include:

Dizziness (when looking at the plum tree in full bloom.)

Heart palpitations (when holding one of my eight little chicks and marveling that three days ago they looked like an almost-omlette.)

Shortness of breath (when intercepting the cat in mid-leap toward a nesting oriole.)

Strange cravings (for abundant vegies in the garden—or at least dirt under my fingernails.)

Mark Twain best diagnosed my ailment. “It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”

Alas, this fever precludes the desire to sit inside at a computer, even long enough to blog. Nor do I want to thumb through musty tomes—unless I do it outside after hanging the hammock from the apple tree. Therefore, I’m going to share two of my favorite “spring” poems from memory and call it a day. If I whiff a word or three, I’ll hope for forgiveness from you in this life and Shelley and Browning in the next.

Spring arose on the garden fair
Like the spirit of love felt everywhere.
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

The year’s at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven; (Six here in Arizona)
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!
~Robert Browning

Clearly, I am not busy (like Julie) or creative (like Rob) but I am sick. I am practically delirious with longing to welcome the bees, stir up a little nectar for the bummingbirds, and bond with my chicks. As much as I love and appreciate you all, you will just have to excuse me while I go hang with my (other) peeps.

Happy Spring!