There’s emptiness in spring,
Hollow feelings that pieces of you are missing—
Pieces lost across such vast spans of time
where no one ventured out.
Shallow, your breath is stale. It quietly pushes your lungs
back and forth, a rhythm of blood pulses.
Behind you are winter coats and pricks of bone,
Empty shells for the tired and brittle.
Those promises you made under blankets,
that things will get better—
They lie dormant within your muscles,
memories of times when you were stronger.
There’s hunger in spring, a craving for lost things.
Slowly you begin to recover a sense of belonging,
A sense that the world is not such a solitary place.
Broken hearts like broken bones
begin to stich themselves back together.
There’s beauty in spring,
The ability to withstand flood, the skin to burn,
a freshly picked flower that knows its mortality.
Among shifting seas of green we fumble across the raw landscape,
collecting bits of ourselves like bread crumbs
that hungry birds did not locate,
trying to find our way home.