By the end of winter I am a patchwork mess of jeans under a dress, gloves that don't match, and whatever has survived late evening train rides and not been lost or disappeared to the bottom of the burrow.

No one wants this weather: March winds and heavy snow. we want beaded condensation on glassware. we want all the grass, brown or green. We want to believe when we say by the time we get home we will have the energy to clean the house, fill the water jug, do all the laundry, start life again. Paint nails yellow or at the very least settle for an open window

Everything is changing and, okay, I feel it all, I feel it all; great, the sun is out

but come on come on come on

give me more