Every winter, I die with the earth
and rise again with the dripping, blossomed thaw.
I emerge from my dark den of hiding
ravenous
different, and yet the most myself I’ve ever been
with a new set of brighter eyes
rosy-faced, tender—
I have left behind another shed skin.
and I think
have I made it this time, finally and fully?
to this brimming garden? this honeyed milk promised land?
have I finally found the ancient springs I came from? the
waters that feed the roots of these hardy mountain flowers?
is it time to drink deep?
to be whole and well?
(yes, this time, it is.)
