She said I felt like

the Spring

and I wonder if she meant

concrete turned to grass,

frozen beer defrosted

under an undrinkable tap,

or my great granny’s afghan

unraveling in the sunlight

under my window.

I think what she intended

was that I’m evolving,

that I’m a gutted craftsman

in a neighborhood

being gentrified,

that the pieces of my life

might as well be

lawn clippings

laying

in the middle of the road.

And I think

if she had stayed just

a couple hours longer,

if she had seen the way

the morning light

piggybacks

on top of the buildings

until it reaches my apartment,

then,

she would have said

I’m a constant Spring

of mess,

caught in the middle;

that she’s hopeful

I’ll reach summer.

Callie Crouch  (she/her) has an MA in Writing Studies from Saint Joseph's University  and is attending law school at the University of Colorado Boulder. Her  flash fiction and poetry appears in numerous journals and anthologies,  including Barbar, Coffin Bell, Olit, Orca, Roanoke Review, Quarter(ly)  Press, Volney Road Review, Pinky Thinker Press, and Barely South Review.  Callie is from Florida but lives in Colorado while working on releasing  her debut novel, Idalia. You can find her at calliecrouch.com