Winter punched me in the gut,
and spat me out in May.
Slithered me to bed
still not to sleep —
the snow,
and memories thereof,
lived rent free in a mind
frightened,
shambled.
This —
until truth paid bills
until tea soured
until kefir ripened
until water filled —
mountain streams
and fields
and cups
and lawns.
So I slept through spring,
rushed towards the sun,
and cleaned my rooms
for June to form
its solstice fruits
to sweeten days
and dreams.
- Afton Light, 2022
