Your Last Spring
No one says it aloud.
The word last
moves quietly
between appointments,
between the careful
arrangement of days.
Still, the garden insists—
daffodils opening
without hesitation,
branches writing green
into the air.
You watch from the chair
by the window,
learning the shapes
of things you may not
touch again.
There is so much
you meant to plant—
rows imagined
but never begun,
seeds still folded
into their small futures.
Spring does not wait
for completion.
It arrives fully,
indifferent to witness,
and passes—
leaving you
with the unbearable clarity
of how little
was required
for it to go on.
Author: Jennifer Freya Helgeson
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