I don’t like beech trees hedges at any other time of year than spring. The dried copper-colored leaves shake in the wind; rattling like great skirts of beetle carcasses, husks clacking together. Though the sun shone today high in a pinked sky and made me happy by still being up past 5 o’clock when I finally left work, it wasn’t enough to shake my mood. Not even roses waiting for me on the table with the smiles of my family and shouts of “Happy Valentine’s Day!” have worked long enough to shake this mood loose completely.
This mood that has wrapped around my head like a smothering turban. It’s a mood that lifts once in a while like a nosy neighbor’s curtain, then drops again when it thinks I’ve turned my attention toward it. I wish I knew where it came from and how long it is planning to stay and whether or not it knows it’s not really welcome, though I’ve been polite enough not to throw it out yet, though it’s long past the verge of overstaying, regardless.
Late-winter blahs, the indulgence of a good wallow in whatever this is; not self-pity, not really lethargy since there is plenty of energy when needed. A certain small sense of sameness, that’s all. Nothing a few crocus buds and early daffodills wouldn’t cure, I’m sure.