Mud

Today was a hopeful day.  It feels like
the end of winter, not-quite-spring, cool enough
to raise goosebumps on sweaterless arms,
but warm enough to go without a sweater
- just.  The air is somehow bursting outwards;
the sky no longer pressing down heavily on us.
The dampness that fell as drizzle
during the night and lingers as puddles in the
morning is not the kind from which I recoil, but more like surf:
it carries me with it toward the sky
and makes my heart beat stronger.

This is the kind of day I remember so vividly and so fondly:
it makes me think of the kind of afternoons when
high school physics problems are pushed aside
until after the sun has fallen
because, today, it's warm enough for soccer.

All day today I remembered the happy anticipation I used to
feel during French conjugations, Chekhov plays or statistics
And then I remembered the laughter of my friends
the feeling of mud on the back of my legs
as we ran, falling in the mud
the pop of the ball against our cleats
playing keep away - my dark-haired friend always won,
never a contest at all;
the tightness in my chest and the sting of my bare legs
in the still just a little too cold air.

And then we would jog back to my house,
our cleats ringing against the pavement,
to have a snack before my friends collected
their school bags, home to physics problems

where our mothers would intercept us at our doors,
in disbelief at all the mud that coated us,
the mud a vehicle for our joy.

What signs of spring bring you joy?
Does weather ever bring back memories for you?