She’s there even though I hardly notice her. Half asleep in the cold boreal forest, resting in the roots of naked trees, slow activity in winter-dusty leaves of domesticated plants. Silently preparing herself. I don’t even notice that the light has returned, but she’s already crouching with unretainable energy, waiting to explode in a carnival of bursting spring buds. Catching rays from the sun itself, she gently merges my exhale with water, converting it to quivering bouquets. And as I inhale, I know that what she exhales, is what my lungs crave.
I usually don’t pay her any attention. But I know she’s there, even on gloomy days when the weight on my chest leaves me gasping for air. I take a deep breath, remembering that she’s got my back.
