When it was Winter, my hands were cold, by my heart was warm. Now it is spring, my heart is warm, but I still can’t feel my fingertips. I’ve never noticed this season’s ethereal vibrancy before, but it’s ubiquitous and charming in its romantic innocence. Actually, no, the flowers and the trees are far from innocent, it is I, instead, who feel as raw and open as the bud that comes forth into the breeze, mysteriously and quietly. I’m not mysterious. I’m an open book, heart running down my sleeve in the rain, like the way children’s sidewalk chalk paintings distort and slide along the concrete in a feisty April squall. Here it rains suddenly, here the sky bursts forth with its own emotion and then turns back to sunshine or blustery winds, pollen flying through the air, sparkling and sweet.

When it was Winter, my nostrils were wills with the scent of chestnuts roasting, of shit and anger, occasionally punctuated by a blast of icy air from around the corner of a concrete monolith. In the grey and the grime I glowed red and obvious, unabashed in my unseasonable display of bright and joyous plumage. I competed with the Bloomingdales windows, the Macy’s decorations, but not the Rockerfeller Christmas tree itself. Too many tourists would vie for its attention; they generally sucked life out of me anyway, but not the warmth of my heart and the sweetness upon my lips.

Now it is spring I watch the clouds and their multilayered determination. They’re fascinating to watch, and give the sky a depth and power that is temporary and strong. I’ve been trying to warm my hands, yet the energy I expire to better circulate the blood, alone, is not working. I wonder if my heart is not strong enough, if it has become too cold, but then I look back at the slanted sunlight and the fairytale like quality of the evenings and I know that can’t be true. I’m warmer than ever in this mystical season, and someday my fingers will feel the same sensation too.

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