Sixty-seven degrees today, and it feels like maybe, finally, we’re getting some traction under our feet and spring is on its way. The wind pounds and whips the salty mud; the air feels so different on a day like today—a day of sunshine and buds. Deep beneath, there is a waking of all small, green things.

After this winter of eternal gray—the dry cold beating down the door and slithering between the sheets—it’s hard to believe in spring. And summer? Summer is a fleeting breath between deep frosts.

But when it’s 67 degrees outside and the wind nearly blows your feet from under you, there is no option but to breathe, breathe deeply this hope, this grace of light and life, however briefly.

by Louise Glück

Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.

I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring—

afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy

in the raw wind of the new world.

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