Winter launches into my ghost
which never thought a season
would freeze it into a shape:
the expression I wore when
you netted our butterfly kisses
and pinned them inside a box
I saw dropped inside a grave.
Summer used to bring me back
to life, so I could taste chocolate,
sweetness instead of bee stings
that populate my arms and legs
with a hive of scars, leave me
unconscious in a coffin of honey.
Spring referees between them.
It says I can exist between states,
a heart in a snow bank, mind
in an uncut lawn, with my spirit
alive in a field with your name,
a word I’ve forgotten how to spell
but can read everywhere in the green.