15 reasons for staying afloat in winter

Because you can only see how sun dances on water when you stay above the surface of it. Of water, I mean,

because water will hold the small of your back and make you feel weightless, untethered from everything except for sky.

Because the sky in winter holds a slanted softness. A city I’m growing to call my home is covered in snow that makes the ground reflect the breach of pink above.

Because we glue ourselves to the couch, guzzle wine and cry about Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone and jazz bars and Los Angeles and all the choices we’ve made while the world outside is silent.

Because snow melts and ice thaws, and all the times I slipped are only memory. I’m trying to free myself from memory, looking toward something new, so you should come over,

because Alex’s parents are making gumbo in our cramped kitchen tonight, and this might be the only time we’ll ever cook okra and andouille, with a roux that refuses to brown

because our stove refuses to warm up, and our dishwasher won’t clean our dishes, and my sink doesn’t know how to drain, anymore, but my room is the window you can see from the street with the strange, orange glow.

Because the daffodils bloom early this year and Ryan notices how all of them have faces pointing to the sun, and the preschoolers paused in front of the art museum all lift their heads to the sky, too.

Another instance where Ryan was moved by flowers

Because losing an hour of sleep gifts us an hour of light, which really feels like the gift of more time, which is really all I’m asking for,

because more time means more poems means more long stretches of contemplation more long run-on, meandering sentences,

because I’ve walked through enough winters to know sometimes the reason isn’t realized until the end.

Because on days like these, when I feel tricked by this winter’s warmth, like I’ve opened an envelope not addressed to me, you grab my hand and we walk to the park, where I used to go to make wishes on stars for a life I have now, and I allow the ground to hold me, I no longer need water,

A year ago, at Washburne Park

because with you I feel like I’m floating. With you my words dissolve and my limbs become honey under early March light, the promise of a canopy of leaves.   

Because winter always leaves me breathless,

because suddenly it springs.