For once, I don't want to talk about the weather. I don't want to talk about the brown winter ground that's muddy from the recently melted snow, or the spindly tree branches that have been cold and raw for months, or the ever grey skies that are a passage way for migrating birds, so free with their delicate feathers and hollow bones. The mud is just sinking sand that pulls me down in an effort to drown me in the winter sameness. The branches only tear at my skin; revealing the bone underneath, with the words I hid there, etched in black ink. And the sky is sinking lower, pushing me with all its weight; cracking my spine to expose my fears and my faults. But I'll survive. The toil of regrowth is coming, and then -- and then! -- the ground will harden, the branches will soften, and the sky will rise with the roar of an enormous courage; a time bomb that is later destroyed by autumn, just before we all explode with invincibility. Summer is coming, and maybe it's three months away, but I'm waiting with fingernail marks on my palms from clenched fists for the day that winter's chill isn't so fierce and paralyzing.