The bright air filled with hard winter sunlight is drawing the moisture from the earth, cracking and freezing the ground, sleeping the seeds. The wet breath that once drew the bean sprout out from the seed, that made bursting green be born from limbs of dead wood has been coaxed from her hiding place in the mud. This bright fog lifts our warmth from us.

It’s only winter, only the first of 100 sterile, white days. No need to flog your self in agony, or ask the gods forgiveness. You are not being punished. All things that hinge on time are, at last, inevitable. So sleep you summer seed. Seal your eyes and lips like the seam of a nut. You will be called . . . again.