Winter’s chained itself to the bedpost. It screams in agony as my family and I try to cook it off, with space heaters, blankets, hot tea and cocoa. Usually so passive, so plain, so white, he sure has found his color in Spring. Is it Spring? His presence makes it hard to tell. He snuck out on a cold night, hit my newly assembled greenhouse with a sick, deathly chill, claiming four flats of cabbage, a flat of lemon balm, two wonderful recently up-potted rosemary.
He screams of years passed, says we move on too easy, on wars long forgotten and yet re-seeded. I woke up the other night, got a bad need to leave the window cracked, which makes his nighttime excursions all the easier. When I tossed my stiff legs over the bed, I landed on a crystal burnout he’d left as he fled. I had to get a towel to clean up. When I woke up he’d painted the whole world white again. A middle finger to who, still I don’t know quite know; everyone it seems.
He seeps easily into my bones, as I do my morning chores. You learn to surrender. There is no such thing as cold.