Every year, at the precipice of spring,
I get a little cerebral,
grieving the loss of those summer-grown ego feathers
under the snowy lay of winter.
Having shed so much,
I become uncertain what to wear
and where to stand
so I teeter at life’s threshold,
underdressed and chilly,
asking for guidance but taking none of it,
choosing instead to laugh my grief loose,
making funny word-things,
a slow-cooked porridge of sense;
my heart grows slowly back again.