Waiting for Spring

 Cool and white the snow falls steady behind the glass turning the brownstone buildings white and smothering the sidewalks and its chill reaches out in frigid embrace and steals the heat from the blankets she’s wrapped herself in. The heater that runs along the wall’s trim in her apartment fights with a dull hum to keep her warm as the crystalline flakes throw themselves against the window to bring the cold into her bedroom and in defeat melt into streaming tears to match her own. In her ears the acoustic pulses like a choked and rhythmic sob and the song is sad and she is sad and looking to the sky the snow comes ceaselessly and without tempo and coats all evenly and it makes her sad too but where the singer’s voice lends understanding to misery and the instruments bleed with her heart the winter does not love her and would see her covered uniformly with the world and she thought that if she were to be sad she wished she could follow the songbirds south and be sad somewhere warm and far away and hear their mournful trills instead of the static buzz of her headphones and as she remained here with the numerous, nameless leaves that died in autumn and now lie buried in a white grave. Bracing against the chill, she sits up and wipes her eyes and starts another day.