Winter in Winnipeg stretches on like an endless exhale, each day dragging through the chill, but now—now you can taste the shift. The light lingers longer, and beneath the crisp air, there’s this pulse, this quiet hum, like the earth’s breath drawing in. The trees, bare and stark, hold their silence, waiting—holding something in their branches that only they know. I saw one, its limbs bare and brittle, yet I could see it in my mind: green. It was almost there. Almost.
And with that, the floodgates of possibility open. No more layers, no more barricading myself in against the cold. I can almost hear the grass swaying in the wind, feel the air softening as it beckons. It’s not just surviving anymore; it’s being. It’s picnics that spill over with laughter, bikes carving through the streets like whispers on the breeze, moments that won’t be caught behind windows but lived, breath by breath, under the sky.
Spring’s arrival is like the promise of something better—of shoes on bare earth and time unfolding like petals. I’m already sinking into it, the warmth, the energy, the endless horizons of daylight. The weight of winter falls off, and with it, so does the tension. The city is about to wake up, and it’s going to be beautiful. It’s going to be alive.
