The weather turns.
The way we turned ahead the clocks, a leap of faith, imposing ourselves into this new warm, moist season, our hands still frigid from being so long exposed.
I can barely move my fingers or feel the softness that this new season brings, my soul aching for the touch of leaf again after so many months of stark icicles, this stiff embrace painful with each bend of finger.
I learn to walk again, needing not to fear falling from some slip on ice, solid ground that my footsteps can follow with more certainty as I stride back into the wider world.
I am renewed on the inside and out, though I still stir with the need of release, the desperate struggle to unsheathe what winter had forced me to hide.
The breeze is not yet warm enough for me to run unclothed through woods or fields, though that ache rises up with the promise of release, of free air, and the kiss of something tender on my upturned lips.
Even the rain, as cold as it is, renews me, and I choose to walk without hood or hat to allow it to wash down over my face, this grace of changing, this rebirth out of which I find hope of release, this change of season that brings me back to life, and makes me ache in better way, in a way that promises some greater reward.