My thoughts on hope...and March.
T. S. Eliot says that “April is the cruellest month,” but he is wrong. It’s March—March who taunts and teases, makes me think that all is well, and then declares war against me. I have tried to love him; in fact, I did love him. In his tenderness, he removes the defenses I constructed when the world began to freeze: uncurls my fists to create open hands; rolls my shoulders back so they are not up to my earlobes; lifts my chin; tells me to soften my eyes.
As I unfurl, March remains frozen, cloaked in ice. Breaking through reveals only a frigid stream, an inhospitable ground. Growth cannot happen.
I await the thaw.