This is the time of seeds. Of waiting and taking nourishment. There is order to the seasons. The bones know spring is coming even if the view doesn’t quite reflect it. Winter sun on the thin ravaged skin of snow and ice, dug out and dug in, still blinds. We squint, each day a brand new rapture and begin again. And again. And. Again. The roots that grow tickle and ache, an impossible to ignore arthritis. Let us then celebrate the death and life and death, make snow cream, see the muddy tracks we leave through the yard, and live. Because there is no other option. Must.

must
must
must
these aches
must
must
must
sing sing
sing sing
sing sing
must must
must again
and again
and again
must again
and 
sing