"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am." ~Sylvia Plath~
On the edge of spring she sits, waiting for the light to sink into her winter-weathered bones. One deep breath. Two. A heart that brags itself into existence. A fence stands sentinel along the yard, demanding that she choose a side. In or out. Pickets biting into the frigid air like teeth set in a grassy jaw. Choose.
Or not. She can let the waiting choose for her. Hat blown from careless lap, hair escaping from its neatly-pinned chignon. The breeze swells with the musk of clover and damp earth. She begins with the breath. With the fledgling spring, where everything is possible.
I begin here, with her.