16 February 2015
winter came, and like birth
Suddenly, winter resurged.
And brought with her the various trimmings pulled from a wardrobe's dark outer edges. Scarves and socks that promise to itch the skin. And, she came in sound -- hear the clamor of boots in the hallway. The apartment door held ajar just a second longer -- an extra moment for bodies thicker with fat coats to pull themselves inward.
Winter. You can hear her in the familiar sloughing of snow-slush off shoulders.
She snuck, but somehow, came loudly. Like laughter. There is something undeniably loud about weather that demands such space, and promises to take it up -- weather that covers the car roofs and roof tops on houses, and mailboxes on the ends of driveways on the quaint lanes of those houses, and all the roads and avenues that criss-cross in the city, too, and weather that weaves itself into every fiber crossing in our clothes, mingles with each exhale of every woman and man and child and dog walking along all the roads and the avenues, and the quaint lanes.
Winter laughed on the wind, which we watched from the windows, watched it pulling itself up and down, and backwards, changing its mind a million times -- like the best of us -- before settling, agreeably, onto everything.
(And I settled down, too -- to the place where I write, or will try to, for a winter's resurgence is the same as a writer's.)
Yes, she came, and she not like death, but like birth.
She came like (the promise of) a different kind of life.