This is not my dormant season:
Every day, the sap is running
smooth and cold and sweet
along my inner courses
as the fresh form swells and claims new space,
ventures out across the wheeling rays of day,
skin touched, as for the first time,
by sun, by rain, in the eager stretch of greening
that meets the tingling air

And in the unseen places
vast networks of fine and tender roots
spring out along the paths within the soil

This is how it is —
selves of yesterday
fall off like sheathes, like scales,
each day I give myself to this life.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 20, 2015