“This snow is all going to turn to mud,” she says.

We’re walking in it and I keep wishing for spring.

She’s reminding me of the part in between,

how things must melt and flood before

anything will grow.

Lately, I’ve felt the flood in me,

flashed feelings

drowning out the circuit breakers

of my brain.

My heart muddied,

I am stuck in place.

The ground sinks and each movement

becomes treacherous.

Lately, I’d rather hide under ice than

find what’s underneath.

I am afraid of the rush of what I can’t control.

I am afraid of the rotting at the roots of things

before they even begin.

“Aren’t you looking forward to spring?” I ask her, walking faster, against the cold wind.

“Yes, but it will get cold again first, she says, “Why rush what will come anyway?”

And I think it’s her youth

that makes her think the sun

is an inevitable thing,

that warmth always returns.

I am older and I don’t rely on much

coming back anymore.

But I know I can no longer fear

the in-between.

The changing of things.

The uncertainty.


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