It’s not that I fear the gravity of it,
there is love in the heft.
Not a ball and chain
but a substantiveness that defines my shape.
My new form,
forged from days of agony
attached with adoration
becoming weeks, months, welded together
like mail armor,
impenetrable.

I’m grateful to live in four seasons.
My memories are measured by the sun.
Did I wake in darkness or light?
Was I wearing a coat or were bare arms comfortable?
Bare arms will never be comfortable.
I will take solace in the tug,
the weight and buoyancy,
of the year
I keep over me.