Excerpt from my journal - January 27, 2026 - 7th st
I am not a thing
that grows in the winter
At the whisper of cold air, my spirit freezes over
and I perform a false death
along with the willow oaks and the cypress…
…But underneath, where bulbs lie
There is something patiently waiting
Something as relentless
as the harsh January winds
But for now, it sleeps
While the earth above dries and cracks
until it is covered by the gentlest rain of them all
Snow blankets my frozen spirit
and shines as bright as I will
Once the daffodils
start to bloom
During my Syreeta deep dive - Syreeta Wright, Motown’s Biggest Fumble - I discovered this song, and it’s the only thing I’ve been listening to lately.
Syreeta’s music cuts so deeply to my soul, that it was difficult not to project too much of myself when trying to write about her. How much of her life did she spend like a bulb in wait? Did she bloom too soon? Like an eager virginia bluebell before a second freeze?
After spending all week in the 60s with her, I have woken back up in the present, where the sprouts of my own dreams have started to pop up as the snow melts away.
More to come soon.
MP