On a winter day, I dream of spring.  Small, flea-sized flakes of snow are blowing horizontally in the wind today. I am trying to convince myself that I love cold, that I love wind. My fingers imagine how cold the branches of the Maples outside my window must feel. My feet imagine how the earth too doesn’t want to move. Maybe my dream of spring is really everything’s dream. Worms and toads and fireflies and crickets and old oaks and the muddy bank of the river, the drifting grey clouds. We are dreaming about the sun, and how we need her. Need her warmth and need her yellow. Need her to skin beneath our skin.