Rise

After weeks of overcast gloom, the sun beams over Manhattan. Blue skies, blue Hudson River waters, blue reflections in Midtown skyscraper, bright lights lifting your eyelids from the depths of sleep, sweet reminders of where you've laid your head, the smell on the borrowed shirt like a hand to hold when you didn't ask for it. 

It shows up your self-reliant superego by offering things 
you didn't think
you even wanted,

depositing them on your
doorstep quietly
so you don't need to go through
the motions
of protesting. 

On the street below, yellow cabs make their way to the West Side Highway, Sunday revelers greet the sun along the High Line. She writes to say they've canceled their plans, they're ordering bagels and staying in bed. You find a bike, make your way through a city that's held your hand through everything, go to see people who've become family in sickness for a moment of health. Spring is far away yet,
but you feel hope begin to sprout
in your spine
all the same.