Spring is three weeks late this year, they apologize over a crackling phone line. You walk through the garden looking for signs of bloom, but all there is is an ocean of dandelions. Cover the fledgling sprouts with blankets. Light a fire at twilight and will yourself to sit in the chill. It will come, it always does, eventually. Find an apartment on tenth street and think maybe there are miracles to be had, yet.
In a tired moment late in the afternoon, I sat staring into the sunlight, begging myself to be productive, but no work was to come. I waited a little longer, silent, and there it was: pulled out a pen and paper, wrote the story as it told itself to me, complete with curlicues and heartstrings stretching. We get in our own way so often, when actually everything we are hoping for is just looking for a quiet moment in which to appear.
Everything magic has just been waiting, patient underneath the layer of snow you have carried these last years. Spring is on its way now, the thaw is beginning, when the ground is clear the magic will sprout, if you just wait a little longer, you'll find yourself again.
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