Spring Smells Like Faded Patchouli

Spring is raising it's sensual eyebrow and scanning the horizon for likely and unprepared victims. That snickering "Bwa-haa" is not me, but the ee-vile seduction call of the husky-voiced
Centaur of Endorphina, and he will be obeyed. (snicker snicker) I can hear his hairy palms and bowed quads rubbing together all the way over here on the Edge of No Man's Land. The heady perfume of warm breezes and the irresistible elixir of Oregon brewed spirits will overpower the staunchest hard-to-get player and crossed-armed hold-out, and then the tango will begin. (Not with the Centaur, that's pretty awkward and he has those hind feet). With your belov-ed, intended, novio o novia, your new lah-vah.

There are new cars overnight in my neighbors' driveways, late night giggling in the hot tub next door, a new doggie at my landlady's door when I come in, a new baby on the way at my other neighbors', a friend who juggles two cross-country, another who's interest in dancing put a rose in her teeth, and now the guy across the street with a second wife. Sheesh. Centaur of Endorphina indeed, and it's only the 6th of March---the crocuses aren't even finished yet, and we are having a few 60 degree sunny days so everyone winds up in bed (or in love, or at the Saturday Market, or standing in front of their closet pulling their hair out)

Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I mean, given the right circumstances...

Actually, NOW would be a great time to meet someone and have it click, because I'M NOT WORKING. I actually have the time and attention to really get to know a person. And have them get to know me. The unemployed, drifting, check-waiting, mooning artist with two cats and a small apartment who loves her life at 45. Who has champagne in the fridge, a great mind, and nice nails for the first time in over ten years. "What's not to love?"

The forsythia in my neighbor's back yard came out yesterday, and even more so today. The coral blush Camellia and sour red flowering crab apple facing south are hovering over the yellow bristling spikes. Beneath spreads a lustrous Persian carpet of crocuses and iridescent green mosses, with grassy daffodil recruits leaning in and almost ready to shine. The leafless trees don't block any of the restorative blue sky on this warm day, and suddenly three hours had passed on my front porch, and I could feel the sap beneath the house simmering, the old-growth timbers remembering the sun. A handful of crows jeered at the romantic silliness of it all, then ragged away to the north cedar tree where they have a big messy nest. I guess the crow shows up with an impressive bauble but is a suitor of few flowery sentiments. And neither of them do housework.