To The Lady on the Train,
The season is turning once again in this city. And as
always the turning is measured in the temperature of the breeze and by the
slant of the sun. It is measured by the sightings of birds and squirrels and
the greening of patchy lawns. Between squinting in the thin sun and the
diminishing brown snow banks we are aware of the coming spring.
Perhaps it is these things that stirs in our blood and
awakens some hope within us. Perhaps it is some unseen magic or shift in
gravity that whispers to some forgotten promise that lifts our chins up from
our chests. The city stands a little taller and further out from ourselves. We
shed the first layer of hibernation from our souls - it falls from our
shoulders as we squint and shield our eyes from the sun as if seeing it for the
first time.
It is still cold and we remain wrapped for the time
being. But the earth is whispering to us - soon, I promise, soon.
The Man in the Station
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