All my dreams have wound around need.

This time of year the radiator sings at night. The gray mornings are carbon copies of Cleveland’s skies. Those years full of bravado that only darkness holds or youth demands. To the east, the pastel light spins out into easter yellows, baby blues, and softened ripe peaches.

I watched him dip his boots into the fountain, one at a time, muddied from the urban forest he was paid to curate.

When we talk about the work be explicit.

Do you care
enough?

We all have somewhere to be
someone to hold (ourselves mostly)
accountable for what happens today.