The days rise in a fog now, in cruel swerves of storms and frost, you try desperately to keep your chin up, your feet down, go through the motions of putting breath in your lung. There's an other side to this, you know there has to be, there always has been before. Try to count your fingers, your toes, the stars and wait till you reach it.
Be quite determined to reach it.
They reach out in distant voices, tentative at first, then calm and determined, gauging the flight of your eyes, the cracks in your composure, line up defense and offense around your excuses, make a plan to check back in. You melt at their comfort, at being seen for all your madness.
Zip yourself back up and go for a run.
Today I saw the first buds on the trees along the river, not quite there, but almost. I thought If they can make it through a hundred days of dreary death, and still come out brand new, then surely I can hold my breath and find some life here too.
I don't quite believe it yet, of course
but maybe I don't have to believe
for it to still be true.
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