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.
Ah,
life.
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