The last lashes of winter try to cut you at the ankles, a death rattle full of poison even as you divine sunlight at the end of the tunnel. Spend hours staring into the void at the other end of the mirror, try to glean signs of life behind the whites of your eyes. See your own eyes from years past echo the lessons you refuse to learn. March buries me yet again.
I suppose this was always the way. Each year the same disbelief. One foot in front of the other until the daffodils bloom. The first cherries have bloomed in Brooklyn, two little buds on the lifeline of a map. You take shallow breaths, will the oxygen in your lungs to last just a little longer. Outside, it pretends to snow, the boiler in your building running rampant to keep up. One day it will be just a story you tell, but not today,
not yet.
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