Once the snow melts find out who you really are. The wind will die down and free the spirit.
The rotting twigs from the final days of your autumn have frozen over, but now they can finish the process started in the warmer months.
Into the dirt all things go, as all things must come.
Don't let yourself get too attached to the budding fruits on the trees. There are wasps in every fig, working their way out.
Escaping the sweet flesh for a chance at life in the polluted air.
Everything that was buried, waiting to be uncovered once the slush is melted is gone.
Everything wants to be forgotten.
The seasons have no choice but to continue on.
The first snow flake feels inevitable. But it gets later every year.
We all await what's coming but nothing feels certain any more.
Nothing is sacred the way it used to be.
The way it felt a year ago.
Performed at the Brown Building on April 5, 2025 for "Neurology"
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