What now, if anything, shall we wrest from sediment? When the pretty lights have faded to fallen husk, what shall we make of burnt out shells? This, my love, is what awaits us this spring. In the garden of history, the archaeology of whispers. Here now, bones of fire. Brush the dirt from fragments, reconstruct the body of appetite.
Perhaps the better part of wisdom is the turned eye. Let the record show us how to forget.
Shall we pull at threads to wake up naked? Shall we worry scratches to the point of gore? With the weight of mirrors on our back we will buckle and bust. The flowers will open without us while we scratch at the roots of gathered sorrow. We will starve in the bounty of harvest. Here now, the sum of all our winters. Behold them in the triumph of light.
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