The following May, after the clouds had gone and

the sun’s sticky fingers held your face,

you sat on the porch breathing and watching the morning.

Yellow roses danced before you,

triumphant in the desert garden with

their neon contrast striking amongst the saguaro cactus.

The following May, after the biting grip of winter

against the scalpel’s tip had worn away,

you wondered how you got there

from the stark white hospital to a late spring’s warmth.

One year, the doctors said, thirteen months before,

when the rain steamed on the sand.

The following May, when you opened your eyes, you took in

the landscape. The ache of a year fighting

to heal your brain and dissolve the wool had lessened.

You woke up to feel your seasons changing again,

and sat there, ready to embrace them.