Change of Season

Change of Season

My mouth is dry,
my tongue thick and heavy.
It feels foreign,
as if it doesn’t belong to me.
Would my body betray me that way?

Perhaps I just need a glass of water
—but I’ve downed six or seven today,
and the thirst remains, unslaked, unmoved.

My lips are cracked,
and opening them hurts.
I’ve started communicating
without words,
but I miss them terribly.

Is this state of affairs temporary?
Could it be my very own
winter of discontent?

Out front, six or seven crocuses
are preparing to enter from stage left.
Daffodils and tulips will share the spotlight next.
Water from today’s rain puddles in their curled leaves.
I wonder if it’s enough for me.

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