March 20, 2018

a gladness we'd nearly forgotten

Wherever Spring is, she's not in this zip code. At least, not at first glance
to the sidewalk, where snow from the previous storm remains
encrusted to the parking meter. Across the street, a series of plowings
has produced a pile the size of the world's tallest man. Waking,
we shuffle toward the thermostat in languid resignation, forgoing a peek outdoors
to test the temperature, months away from the glorious turn the air
last made, entering a fresh quadrant of the year. It will happen again the one morning
we won't anticipate, just like every joy arriving without the ceremony of a prelude. 
Instead, we will be dressed for another season entirely and find ourselves at the door
of our own molting, pierced by a gladness we'd nearly forgotten, but recognize instantly.