There is small snow racing and swirling its way to the ground. I can see it through the tiny, lace-free squares of the lace curtain. I would rather it be sunshine flooding the space of those tiny squares. I would rather it be warm enough not to snow.
I am getting ahead of myself with wishes of spring and a convictionless impulse to flip open the latch of my invisible restraint. These times of quiet have left me with a smaller sense of wonder and smaller known purpose. I am restless and drained all at once, waiting for spark, for daffodils, for life renewed.
But the season says no, not yet. There is more to contemplate and idle healing to be had, more looking in than out. Hurry is not the way. Great shifts need great foundations. And so the snow, small and meaningful, swirls.
In the quiet, I can hear the daffodils begin to wake.