For the Tenderhearted

A prose poem

Photo by Melissa Westbrook on Unsplash

I break my own heart by wondering if the world will ever become good.
It is a wet cold day in March, but Spring is finally unfolding.
Yesterday it snowed here in London;
once again our concrete jungle became a winter snow-scape.
Today, not a single snowflake remains.
I have convinced myself that I helped by praying them away.
Making my way through familiar streets,
there is not a patch of blue in the sky as the rain lashes at my face.
I wonder if the sky is weeping,
lamenting at how much March can resemble the depths of December.
I’m weary of the people rushing by me as I tiptoe over puddles
and onwards through early Spring like a tenderhearted thing.
I pause for breath.
I’m still learning to dance between the raindrops
and un-break my own heart.
Any day now, I will get a little better at this than I was the day before.