Of course the rain slackened once I'd gotten home and had put the groceries away. The air is less chilly than it was yesterday, and is nice to sniff, smelling of wet pine and grass and a little bit of leaf mold. I'll soon enough lose my delight in it, though, as the rain is apt to continue all week and into next week and, probably, into the week after that. There could be snow yet as well, but I'm not going to think about that. I'm going to think about how March might bring a warm day or two, and fresh flowers and buzzing insects. It's less than a week until the solstice, and then the days will start getting longer. The growing light will make winter less formidable. I might even decide to enjoy a bit of it before it ends.
by Nick Flynn
What would you do inside me?
You would be utterly
comb, each corridor identical, a
funhouse, there, a bridge, worker
knit to worker, a span
you can't cross. On the other side
the queen, a fortune of honey.
Once we filled an entire house with it,
built the comb between floorboard
and joist, slowly at first, the constant
buzz kept the owners awake, then
louder, until honey began to seep
from the walls, swell
the doorframes. Our gift.
They had to burn the house down
to rid us.