“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,
drowning out the circuit breakers
of my brain.
My heart muddied,
I am stuck in place.
The ground sinks and each movement
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 changing of things.