Spring, for Pak Hyun Sook.

How it all turns, travels, unravels, splits, cuts, plants, and throws. So much this past month. Have I lived it? Am I still living now? And the way I move about. I see myself in it. I observe my feelings as though they were a stunned rabbit on a lawn–outside, in its own universe of sensations and alertness.

We turned our clocks back an hour, but I feel myself jetted *towards*. Into and into again. The day, its turns. These rotations of the seasons, our own orbit around the sun, the wheeling solar system, too. These designs echo. She’s gone. She’s elsewhere. She lived a full life, thoroughly, and was wrapped by her little ones as she turned. And just as she passed, I’ve passed into knowing. I saw death intimately, I shared in it as a suffering witness. And this knowledge, it stings. It grows, it is incomplete, yet it has entered me. And in this way, life eats itself and staggers onwards.


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