Seasons

A few hours of morning sun, watching rugby on the pitch this morning, clapping and yelling, and I feel brighter. The trees rise so high above everything around us that the bodies on the field are even harder to track, lost against the green. Except the green is changing and things are turning orange and red, glowing, and I hope that my light is coming back. After a week and a half of struggling through the days, today I feel like smiling. The sun was hot on my back even though it was only 50 degrees outside and I warmed my way into the day.

A snack, a nap, a little bit of reading, and I am feeling like myself. Above that, in articulating the truth of who I am, of who we were and are, I am less sad. I have lost nothing. I have gained the vast openness of artistic companionship, of wonder for wonder's sake. Maybe this is the best I could ask for. I am writing poems that know the Spring is coming, even though we are on the brink of Fall. Spring is inside of me.