PAS DE TROIS

Un.

January arrived and just as quickly took off like a delayed train.
Didn’t bother letting any new passengers aboard, but eased
just enough to come to a rolling stop, to temper the wheels.
There, then suddenly gone, as if it had never even happened
at all. We could’ve dreamt January up. Fashioned it out of
fever dreams, by pure invention. No conceivable difference.
Intoxicating: how a month could be so incredibly peripheral,
so blindsiding, so breathless at the very beginning, kinetic.

Deux.

Then February materialized unexpectedly, an unsettling pause.
Appeared with arms full of slow mornings and longing gazes and
an itch impossible to find or reach, an itch to run. Cabin fever,
hometown sickness, jaded rain. We prayed for days to pass, for
the moon to fast-forward through the tedious process of waxing
and waning, new to full, but they dragged anyway. Leisure is labor.
I missed the rush of sprinting to catch a train, just barely missing it.

Trois.

March, you are quickening within me. I feel you kick, expectant,
stirring somewhere I call soul. What will you bring? Will you drag
your feet or tread weightlessly? I pray for at least a saunter, a sway,
something to indicate that you hold promise. Do not run so fast
I lose sight of you. Do not slow so intensely that I tire of you. Let me
aboard, instead. Wait until I have both feet in the car, a sturdy grip
on the pole, and just enough time to blush to myself, awakening.

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