January

If this were any other time, any other month, I would speak. The words would spill as water, impossible to hold back, dripping from between my lips. But the weather is cold and the words hibernate where they should, hidden away behind unwritten rules, curled up in a ball of truth that is not what you think or fear or expect. They curl up tightly against the chill of the wind and the threat of the ice in their nest of caution and wonder, waiting for a small hint of Spring.