I eat mud 
when sun doesn’t shine
eyes, mine like seas, busk
heavy with the sadness of every season at winter.

To cheer me up
they use illumination therapy and melatonin, carefully ionized air,
but I tell them nothing

of what I cannot speak: that I eat mud
because I can’t swallow this thick rain peacefully,

that I understand leafless branches’
having managed to exist
past frost.
And though you may see me snow-balled and laughing
I am not

unafraid of the tragedy and change
so terrifically embodied by this moribund
post-autumnal haze!

But would be loved
and even if am

am not.

For I speak not of mothers, neither of fathers nor siblings
do I speak.

The sweet ambiance of well grown seasons means everything to me.

I would go where weather still exists
and cease 


I thrive through the ebullient seasons 
made of light
and redolence, and the hypnotizing dusts
of flight

through brilliance and dander, 
and wet green smells
of water 
circulating through healthy bark
of trees 
in blossom     and
even the rain then

fall down onto me
with the light!
into entirely everything 
at the same time
as i scoop
from the torrent 
so many changing, wonderful beings;
cupping my hands, my whole body, into a biblical ark
and am not alone then, in those moments never without you 
Helios, Apollo, Utu, Ra,
Mithras, Phoebus, Horus,

in our sun-spangled atmosphere 
of meaning 
flowing for what feels
this time to surely

be the long awaited eternity 
of peace

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