before spring; before the green shoots of possibility;
before color and the fresh morning
there is a waking underneath
a stirring of elemental force, like the unheard rumblings at the volcano’s root
i feel it in my soles as i walk unshod, testing for solidity
i know it by the broken shards of my sacred pain

not knowing when life will return
nor how the liquid flows of earth and light and water will take shape in me, in the small universe i have touched;
i tremble, remembering failed promise and the twisted gifts
of cold springs past
remembering, over and over, my culpability
knowing that I am my only canvas
and the brush knows no other hand
i tremble, and reluctantly, bow to hope

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