My fingers are cold
Brown – mud caked
Under fingernails. I fold
My fears into the weeds
And yank them out, ignoring
The thorns, scars new or old
My lungs are rotting, buried
At the bottom
Of the compost pile
No breath – wilting in the sun
 Centuries of frost, heat, chaos of the wild.
Cavities in my bones groan
And ache like creaking wood
Snakes bury deep – here come the flies.
Shiver and shake, I hope I don’t
Break, please I must not break.
Only wait out this storm,
This winter.
This cruel December, for
One day, I’m certain, I’m sure
The most beautiful rose will grow
This garden promises well,
I will not go.
I will not go.