THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT BAGGAGE
spring won't make up her mind, or perhaps
it's winter's inside joke. just enough warmth
to get used to before the bitter cold crawls back in.
march is as fickle as it gets, a child
given permission to pick a single toy
alongside an everest of shelves. there's not enough
oxygen in world to scale those hills.
the heart often follows suit, then
gives in this far north; one day excited
about even the possible love interest
in the cashier at the co-op
the next, her mention of the kabbalah
has you shopping hanafords for weeks.
but we forget
how the flowers come up once again. everything
seems ephemeral, fleeting. then don't mind so much
waking up again, as
we're reminded to both dance in the sunshine, and
collect snowflakes on the tongue.
the weight of all the things i haven't done keeps
me both chained down and in fantastic shape.
dragging mistakes behind me around the baggage claim
at the airport of missed opportunity. personally, my
luggage never closed correctly.
the zippers get caught on the choices i never made.