I am standing on the corner of Park and the wind blows through my coat like it is nothing. Like I am nothing.

I get home and begin to shed layers, shed this winter-girl-snake-skin: scarf, gloves, hat, coat, blazer, socks, leggings.

The sun comes in my window an extra hour now. It is not enough.

Underneath the lawn by the Binnenhof in Den Haag, the crocus and the daffodils are whispering to each other, asking if it’s time yet, if it’s time yet, is it time?

The tulips, clutching their finery tightly about themselves, whisper back, “Soon.”