Back then, the wind blew hard over the banks, causing clusters of whiteouts along the road. We drove into ether, turning blind corners blindly. We planted bulbs every fall so we would live to see them bloom.

Let us live.

We had given everything up to the air until the ground would still no more. Spring pushes in from the edges, melting and freezing. The bulbs, clawing back up and out. They will not stay beneath. Give them air. Light.



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