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.