Hope That Helps

Early morning in the East Village spring, the dog walkers are out, the sleepy children carting themselves to school, a slow sunrise stretching itself onto the streets, like a lover might reach their fingertips towards you in bed. Everything is breath held in anticipation, everything in your lungs is hope. 

I spend the afternoons staring at budding trees, I fill my phone with documentation, preparing for a winter ahead when I'll need the reminder, when I'll need to count down days until this very moment. There's work to be done, surely, but can't that be said for anything? There's writing to be done, and it seems more important, somehow. 

Seems like your soul may wither
if you forget.