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Because you went to the city yesterday and cut your hair, which is what you do when you are sad, and stained it light yellow like the reflection of a buttercup held under your chin, and bought party dresses you cannot afford. And because you are girl, and can be tamed by such things as light and hair and party dresses.
Because there was a car fire on the road in, but it was not your car and it was not your road, and though you hope--of course you hope--everyone made it out alive, the white smoke rising above the trees gave you a kind of thrill. And you wanted there to be fire.
Because later there was a ferris wheel, stilled, the circus sleeping in daylight. Because pollen flew in the air like snow. Because the thrum and thrall of the metro calms like a ocean rocking. Because last night you stayed up until 3, trying to write a poem, which will this afternoon, upon reflection, be awful and unfinished, but it is your first attempt in months, since the long dry winter, and it gives you hope that you will go to California and you will do this thing they have told you to do. And maybe you will finish the novel. And maybe someone someday will read your poems, and you will break hearts, the way someone once said you wanted to.
Because in the city, yes, men in a car honked and shouted Love those legs, but then a man on the sidewalk smiled sadly at you and said sorry.
Perhaps all you need is a dress and a haircut and a poem and bees and some man to say sorry.