Bathe in dwindling afternoon light- draped with diaphanous clouds that transform your skin into something new. 

Outside, snow will start to fall.

Remain in the windowsill, a passing shadow or light, a cool marble station animating by degrees.

  A thaw in the middle of winter, where white tulips will bloom in your cavernous chest. 

You paint your nails the yellow of the tulips.

The tulips that bloom in your dreams in the depth of February. 

You take your coffee without cream, watching as a crimson sun rises. 

You write—words that will never be published, words that crawl like spiders from a taut web of anxiety.

Stuff these notes under your sink.

  Let your faucet drip until ink bleeds, until the list of to do’s fade into obscurity. 

Knead and bake sourdough. 

Let your kitchen fill with the yeasty sweet aroma of things past and things to come, of a future not yet fully formed.