You’re alive.
You remember the sharp, serrated November wind,
Blow-up ghosts, yellowed, past their expiration month,
And crumpled maple leaves that cut into your fingertips,
Don’t you?
You’re alive.
You remember the snowflakes stuck to the tips of your hair,
Melting after too many moments inside,
And the rattling of skittish heaters, laboring against the cold,
Don’t you?
You’re alive.
You remember the crash of water against damp riverbeds,
Crudely-dyed eggshells hidden among the dandelions,
And the breeze, comfortable but sometimes clogged with dander,
Don’t you?
You’re alive.
You remember the sweat pooling in the grooves of your palms,
Strawberries so ripe they looked a day away from rotting,
And when the sunlight in your eyes was enough for you,
Don’t you?
