Some seasons you wake up and feel like this:
The rest of the world is blooming and buzzing, and you are left standing apart, a little stark and a little naked. You feel brittle, and liable to snap.
You’re not quite sure what went wrong, and you didn’t really notice until everything else was green and you were not. Only there are hundreds of tiny holes in your core, and all the lifeblood must have drained out or been eaten up.
There was no disaster, no ax at the foot, no hurricane force. Just a slow and steady emptying. And it’s hard to say what’s wrong, only you’re just so tired.
And your roots are still planted by the spring, and the river runs by, but there’s no longer any shade for the little ones. The wind blows, but there are no leaves to rustle a tune.
You’re still standing, but you don’t know what to do next.
There’s this tiny sign of life, but is it enough?