In the opposite season I make my way up the hill
that careens down to the lake, lessened by summer,
that body that sends water down long river arms
to my city, many miles away.

Months ago I sat here when grass flourished freshly green,
when oaks budded with new leaves, and the world
felt clean and bright. In the opposite season
the world has darkened again, and pain knowingly
inflicted rises like dust from rubble.

In the opposite season, I stand amid crackling grasses
that winter rains will, we hope, soften to allow them
to rise next year, remade. I carry despair in my pocket,
wanting the forever spring, the fullness of lake,
the abundance of what we believe was promised:

safety, white healing light, peace.