The hours while away, I'm unsure after the fact where they went. The hours, the days, the weeks pass and spring approaches, how far it seemed just a while ago, wasn't I just dying? The radiator in my room runs rampant: a winter of freezing and suddenly everything is tropical. The bed is empty again, the vacation over. In the park this morning, the flowerbeds were full of snowdrops and aconite, little winks from the earth that everything would be okay. I know how to breathe again.
But as the snow melts, as the hard ground turns soggy with thaw, as everything returns, do not your memories, your feelings, all the things you hid in permafrost, everything you resigned to the death of the season? I remember days of daffodils past, remember how many days I sat with daggers, trying to remember the joy of blossoms. Remember how cruel it seemed to ruin such a beautiful gift with tears, with all the broken blood that ran across its pages.
And yet.
And yet.
How each spring begins anew; how the buds of this year do not remember the blossoms of years before. How once again, winter killed you.
How spring brought you life anew.
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