The phoebes have come back. The drums of the woodpeckers ask and answer. The blue of the bluebird is in the leafless apple tree, new breath. An old grandmother a little surprised to be waking up again, the ground slowly remembers the shapes of grassblades, stems, leaves, birds, cattle, people, songs. The slope whose scars I mended turns green now.
Healing becomes health.
Reverdure is my calling. One thing work gives is the joy of not working, a minute here or there when I stand and only breathe, receiving the good of the air. It comes back. Good work done comes back into the mind, a free breath drawn. I survive this fate and labor by fascination.