Habit

A month ends, you pack it up and label the contents. Winter. Scour the Photo reels, looking for signs of spring in each date. Grateful that previous iterations of yourself have documented obsessively, adding slide for slide of proof, little buds, proper sprouts, signs of life in the snow banks. This year we saw daffodils in March. This year the sun shone in February. I cling to the signs like life rafts, like promises, he writes to say will I see you tomorrow and I'm too busy thinking of petals to consider what that means. I go through the car wash and the droplets freeze before I'm even stopped at the next light, I wake in the middle of the night in shivers. These years have been long and cruel beyond belief. 

But you only find the sprouts
by looking.