Slow thing, Springtime. Slow enough to call it painful, excruciating even. What they don't tell you, is that there’s a Springtime to our soul, as well. It’s more than just weather, more than the first bit of breeze on our t-shirt arms, it’s a thawing of all that froze inside us during the Winters we swear will never end. We stand at the edge of our front porches and shut our eyes, thinking if we cannot see, we can feel it sooner. Warmth is felt first, we say to our frostbitten selves, and search out the red glow on the backs of our eyelids. We wait for heat in from the West.
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