Come, my spirit,
we’ve been to dark places that seem to be the end.

Come, see the red-gold flutter of trees
against a blue enamel sky.

Come, hear the solid thunk-thunk of a woodpecker
searching; the crispy crunch of leaves shed
like so much dead skin.

Come, smell the spice of just cut grass.

Come, feel the cool breeze that sends
a quiver of living across your cheek.