There is this time

When Winter lays his head

In the lap of Spring.

A wasting love.

Have you considered therapy?

No. I’d rather just melt away.


If she places her two little hands in his,

she will feel his pulse—

three more weeks, maybe four

four weeks and two days

just four weeks and three days more.


You might wonder if all Spring’s rain

is simply wet snow


Winter’s paralyzing breath.


Count each inhale, count each exhale,

I don’t seem to enjoy things the way I used to.


She wonders if she can’t slip him

deep into the night

and lead

his straightjacket hospital gown medicated

late March mix

out into the streets,


where they quietly form one unit

of time in transition

before shifting past each other.

A painless inconsequential exchange.

But the empty streets

slushed and echoing

only amplify a collective silence


She is cold

and he is warming.


It is corporeal.

Leaching that heated body

a shock

from self

a break

from home

Spring’s precocious bulb

forces its naked self through the surface,

through Winter’s thawing skin,

a slow suffocation.





Her rueful green leaves pointing towards

the sky


He lies in the ground.

By: Emma Ruddock, Contributor 

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