Member-only story
Quiet Period
There is no spring without winter, no thaw without a freeze.
I have not vanished, nor been “disappeared.”
Buried, briefly; blanketed in the warm earth,
I am not dead. I have dreamed of dead things;
I am not one of them. They sustain me,
Push me, whispering, “Rise. Awake.”
Sunlight touches, warms me, draws me up,
Stretching. Languorous.
Solitude, the exhalation of a pent-up breath,
Released to birdsong, squirrel-scoldings,
And the breezy buzz of honeybees
In clover. Purple sage, pink lavender —
Old, lazy bones clatter —
But I am not dead. Not yet. I open
My lips, drink deep of the rain.
Remembering the intoxicating scent
Of petrichor in summer, I know…
It won’t be long. Next spring,
Or maybe the one after,
I will not stretch up to grasp
Sunshine in a hand that’s rain-slicked,
Covered in dirt.
