And it's time, to crawl inside oneself and recoil around what we are,
what we've gathered and what we have learned.
This cyclic metamorphism,
if we are not to struggle, our growth is at a stand still.
I rather feel the soil breaking free as we emerge,
Every year.
I feel my watered roots,
I let the words, the memories, the past,
drain from me to make room for new things that will soon bloom.
Flower petals tucked in deeply to waxed silken thread.
This dance of spring,
it wakes the dead.

S.M.