Early morning, late March

The digital alarm by the side of the bed bleats
The radioactive glow, of the clock radio, lets me know its time to go…
Face washed, pants on, bag packed, and soft, sweet, sleeping and smiling cheek pecked...

Then, in the early morning, late March light; the twinkle of sky fallen, icy snow, 
Stings my face, left exposed by my face-mask, on my ride to the studio…
My wheels nearly wet, roll on the street-light-shinny street ice/snow of the late March early morning 
The end of another schizophrenic March that doesn’t seem to know, which way to go…
Onward into spring? Or maybe fuck it… and fall back into winter’s dark slumber…