It crept up so slowly I could barely hear its hollowed footsteps. It crept up
soft as April creeps up
when you can barely tell the beginning of spring
from the end of autumn.

I didn’t always have words. Now I can reach a bucket down inside my chest,
draw up pails full of them, but then
I didn’t know the words for the curve of her neck is so smooth
her hair makes my skin feel on fire
her smile makes me want to hold her hand.

Didn’t have the words for
shouldn’t tell your friends this
to say
it’s not my job to correct the blunders of every family member
to respond to
was he a nice boy?
when I went on a date with a girl.

So now April has crept up, and
the sun warm on my skin almost makes me miss winter, makes me miss
not having to justify my existence
to chirping birds, woodpeckers hammering my house.

Today I know the words
you are not broken any more than a crocus just beginning to bloom is broken,
every evening the day lasts a little longer
pushing off that inevitable darkness
(winter was so, so dark)
and maybe spring is where I’m supposed to be.

Today I sit outside and offer my unanswered questions to the ever-shining sun
let the final rays caress my skin,
appreciate whatever joy I am allowed to lay my hands on.