Our

Oh but the words are no good, they really aren't, you look over tragic drivel and loose ends rolling your eyes. It doesn't bother you in the slighest. Year after year the same surprised repetitions, you call yourself a writer but lord if you ever found something new to say this time of year. About how it feels to suddenly open your eyes and see people in the streets (the young girl walking home in yesterday's painful heels with that short skirt barely covering her long, slender legs, and the man unlocking his bike who watches her all the way to Hudson Street), about the way spring explodes in your very gut and makes you dance around the apartment cleaning up and clearing out, about how you cannot keep from singing at the top of your lungs and laughing straight into the hesitantly budding gingko trees, and you cannot now remember a single day's sadness in winter. I devour the new books on my dresser, write little stories for the magazine about Paris (because I love Paris and because my poor cynic's heart never stood a chance against its spring), the scattered pieces of my novel falling apart in piles but I wouldn't have them any other way because such is the tale, but most of all I laugh and think that all of that will sort itself out, everything will sort itself out because do I not have everything I ever wanted after all and what word is there that could be better than laughter?

Spring is here.
Let us run madly into it
and never
never
look back.