Measures

The last of the cold seems to pass in a heavy sigh. Sunlight floods our dirty windows. There's a pot in the corner, where hopeful sprouts shoot into the ether. I ran along the river, the sun had just set though it was evening, and the air was mild. Scores of runners, out from hibernation no doubt, ran like calves let out to pasture, all mismatched socks and spastic limbs. The streets smelled like New York again, everything returns. I cling to weather forecasts like life rafts. Did we make it out alive? I'm not ready to look back and survey the damage just yet. 

But give me a minute, 

and at least I might open my eyes.