The snow looks painted.

Spring hinted in the cold and the wet

and the shadows at night pattern the leftover snow, that which hasn’t melted, into paint

and a thousand things flick through my brain, skittering across the blacks and whites

all the things I intend, the dreams I still wish, the responsibilities of the world

why do things only happen when I’m busy? Why do I have so much to get done?

Good problems to have

February is only 28 days, because who can bear for it to be longer

welcome March….