193/365: Winter Deep
I don't remember winters.
My past resides in summers and falls
when leaves are green or paper loud,
and there is light to be had
on all the skin and clothes and cars and sheds,
lake water and roads and trees and creeping through woods.
Part of me goes away in winter,
my pink skin, larval roots
more insect than cocoon,
alien and shallow dark.
I feel it coming even now.