March

In the midst of late winter, the sky seems endlessly gray, and the trees bend towards the ground as if to express that they too are tired of the cold. March continues to tease us with the promise of warm days, and blue skies leaving us with the disappointment that arises each day as the thermometer stays stubbornly stuck below thirty-two. The icicles that hang outside my window like stalactites, drip leisurely, a hopeful sign. Yet the snow that suffocates the land beneath, remains unchanged, unwilling to listen to the promises of spring made by the calendar. Outside, the world seems to be holding its breath, the silence so delicate like glass one feels compelled to whisper, and tiptoe as to preserve it. 

The snow piles have grown taller, dwarfing me as I stand beside them. I know not to attempt to climb them, as the snow is like quicksand, and the thought of snow running down my calves, pooling in my boots is enough to curb my temptation. My breath collects in front of me, suspended in time until the wind that stings like thousands of needles against my exposed face sweeps it away. The numbness that the cold brings serves as a final reminder that the warmth that we crave has not yet arrived, and with that, the silence is shattered with the sound of my footsteps retreating back to safe territory.