Green

When the wind blows and the crystals tumble aimlessly from the sky there seems no end, you embrace.

You live in America’s refrigerator. They apologize for not even giving you freezer status, but don’t rebel. You can put on a winter jacket and shorts and you might get a few odd looks but mostly the twitching action that parks on their faces. Why a random stranger could look out of the window of their winterized convertible and smile at you, considering owning a winterized convertible in Minnesota is already a reason to self destruct a smile, nobody is quite sure.

The color of this land cannot be described simply by my words nor your eyes. The melting cherry dust that held as the background of a late afternoon Minneapolis is as near as charming as the piercing white that is the St. Joseph farmlands in the depths of an April blizzard. It is the brown muddy sidewalks in February that you detest not because of the dirt or the lack of order and shine that only bigcitiesouteast can provide, but rather because there should never be mud in February.

Seasonal Affective Disorder. In Duluth, Bimidji, or Ely, it’s not a disorder. It’s what you experience if you don’t live. You must dig for the green. Under those three and a half feet of snow with a top layer of shivering ice there surely is the fresh green grass of spring waiting for you, if only you could shovel. “UP NORTH”, you must live to survive. You must live by the words of Kermit.

When green is all there is to be, it can make you wonder why, but why wonder. I’m green and it’ll do fine, it’s beautiful, and I think it’s what I want to be.

The latest event of where I be: the green bud of the neighborhood tree