slumbering into the dust
they were beaten back
into by the hand of winter;
awaiting their revival in
some other realm; but I
would be anew in spring
some months before them;
and as winter waned and
spring washed the stain of
death from me, I awoke a
new person; and I only
hoped it weren’t some
sweet dream to swallow
me whole before dropping
me to the ground like rocks
thrown into the perilous sea
—a streak of red shot the sky,
painting me in the lilt of lilies.