Topsoil

I used to think I was damned to the seasons— a frail-boned Persephone: hands stained with pomegranate pills, last spring’s diagnoses fluttering in my stomach with every shortened day.

I used to think I was doomed to hide and hibernate. Six feet under, a temporary death; and each spring I’d claw my way through the rubble of winter to heal my bleeding fingernails in the brighter months.

Now I think (maybe) I might be an evergreen. Now I think (maybe) that barren winter earth could be the perfect place to plant my roots. Now I think (maybe) these darker nights are just a chance to see the stars a little longer.