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
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
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
He lies in the ground.
By: Emma Ruddock, Contributor