Stripped. And southward, in faint yellow, as of old white clothes but brighter, the bleached hope of someday-summer does little to warm the bareness and quiet. This snow-shrouded sleep of unburied loss is restless–– no, still as winter––shivering–– frenetic, slanted gusts of dreams, all cold, cold, cloudy, and exposed, too far beneath the living sun, saying breathless prayers for new life and waking up and getting dressed and breathing again and knowing. Wait. Far past the delirium and the suffocation of now, there must be deeper reverie. Shall be. Prayer will be silenced, dead, overwhelmed by the loud brightness, the warmth of underneath-the-grave, and everything can stop at last. At first you startle at the thought. Everything must go. Bury it. The short days must become shorter until everyone wakes at once. Not that spring should come to rescue, nor that souls unclothe; but the sun swallow it all and we get dressed.
by Kirby Austin, 2013