Mantra

March arrives in a whirlwind. When the sun shines, it shines without apology: you peel layers of knitwear, walk down the street with your eyes closed and your cheeks turned up like a satellite dish. But the gods are willful, and they throw icy winds and Arctic snowstorms in your path. The weather presenters yell themselves hoarse. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. Breath, in, breath, out. You are alive and that is enough; you are alive, and that is enough. They close the schools for impending weather and your heart aches for the little buds you saw along the river this morning.

But they have been through worse, and they have endured.

they have been through worse
and they have endured.