May 9 and I wake to snow on the ground. The spring brook outside the window carries on, unrelenting, but it looks colder now, less hopeful. The flowering trees shiver under the dusting, but it's nothing they haven't seen before.
I know how they feel.
My To-do list runs long, Monday mornings like a heavy drag across your chest and you wonder what the point is. There was a time when I'd come to this country view only to write the stories of my own whims, but they feel long gone now. I look at nearby rentals and still can't make the mortgage.
The secret evades me, time after time, year after year. I felt so close a few times, like I could smell its promises on the wind, like if I only stretched my fingers into the sunlight ahead I could touch it. But that was long ago now, lately my fingers shiver from cold, the silence is deafening.
Questions trickle out of my chest like stolen goods. Nobody is buying.
They turn to dust on the ground.
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