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