There is a sense of wavering in me, a longing for spring, a desire for stream of consciousness I cannot bring myself to bear.  An unevenness in footing.  A voice crying out in the dark.  A thick cloud of words strumming through my head with no true beat.

This is grief, I argue.  This is ridiculous, I argue back.

I don’t know what to feel.  I am overwhelmed, at times, by the fracturing of my self.  I feel fragile, a sheet of glass cracked and held together by a whim.  I am never fully complete anymore and I try, I try to remember not to call her.  I try to remember that my mother is no longer to be called.

And winter, Ah, Winter, how I am so sick of thee.  I want, like Wordsworth, my daffodils and sunshine.  But instead I am Coleridge, with caves of ice all around me.

I am ready for newness.  For spring break.  For spring to come and refresh the world again.  I long, desperately, for the sun to break through these clouds and sprout flowers once more.

Or, as Percy Shelley said,

O, Wind,

If Winter comes,

Can Spring be far behind?


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