Its brightness is trickery: that eye-slitting brilliance and illumination is just a mirage. With light the world just looks warmer, and seduces heat-seekers outside. And at first the light on your skin is a lukewarm caress. Its barely-there-ness leaves you longing for more: a heated hand against the cheek, a little warm breath against closed lids. But no. Twenty seconds away from an open door, you feel the slap of cold across smarting skin. Because Winter won’t let you have Spring yet. And you feel betrayed, having ventured from your cocoon, tempted by an empty promise of warm. But it’s March. And you should have known better.
barbara fletcher 