Early spring...
Leo finally begins its ascent into the night.
If that lion could roar, would I be able to see its breath,
a cloud of tiny stars in the indescribable sky?

Far below, mottled purple fingers of skunk cabbage
stab at me through frozen mud.


My sap begins to run
sluggish and slow, restless and silently roaring while the air unfolds.

This is not like birth,
not a sharp simple pain.
This is an excavation,
tedious and frustrating,
a dipping in and out like summer pond feet dangling from the end of a dock.

Persephone, how do you manage to climb all those stairs?

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