I breathe deeply.

It’s been weeks since I’ve inhaled,

and felt alive.

The waning growing season

is less about endings, to me.

Stagnation and swelter

Have lifted.

It is far better to be busy.

Survival is an active process.

The depth of silent winter,

White and cozy,

Hasn’t any power to suppress

my spirit.

As the woolen, suffocating blanket of summer lifts,

I remember to be happy.