I hear a tremor in your voice.
Are we bound for regeneration?
And if we are, will it be as one?
Or shall I grow alone,
smaller independently,
but just as alive, hardy?
We were always
blossoming and withering,
living and dying,
at once.
Only after
complete devastation
could we acknowledge the
inevitability of the cold.
I shiver in solitude,
scratch every surface
I can reach, content
in my gnarled peaces,
ready for the next
springtime.
