The days slip towards summer, the sunlight lingering longer each evening, the maple with too early buds on the grey limbs in a false sense that spring is near, the birds however know better, still gorging on the seeds and suet, conserving heat, puffed in the bare limbs. The cold returns again with ice in the wind, spite against the window panes. One season each in this house, enough to know the wind creeps in, the fireplace nestles spiders, and the hawks prowl the skies over the tree filled slope leading away from the yard. A year, passes in moments and in long hours, tea steeping, bread rising, the dogs let in and out, pages turning, leaves blown curbside, snow piling on the railings, thaws and freezes, dust in the window sills. The landlord posts "for rent" and there is no destination in sight. If I am familiar with anything, it is uncertainty: the coin toss of hope and disappointment rising and falling. Yet, here is today to enjoy. The small moments that come and pass by. Coffee with cream, oranges on the countertop, candles lighting the living room, hands touching. The constant knowledge that soon the horizon could separate us sweetens the minutes. There are none to waste, love. Spring, just a matter of wind and sun, then summer, too soon.