When Winter Ends
Does it ever.
I clasp my frostbitten fingers together. Holding my own hands to keep warm.
There are things that could grow, tiny fresh green tendrils that would reach up and out if I’d allow myself to thaw a little.
And I do, in quiet moments. In safe places.
I have days of blinding sunshine, the warmth of it softly kissing my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, lighting up the yellow bits in my eyes, a hint at what life could feel like when winter ends.
I remember how good it felt. So good I’m afraid to feel it again.
So good I’m afraid I never will.
And like everyone who is so over the snow, I have days when I’m sick to death of feeling numb, protective as it may be.
But like everyone else too, dying to throw on a t-shirt and run outside to smell earth on the wind,
For me, there is nothing to do but wait.