This winter whispers and frosts over my bones

It convinces me I will never be warm again.
 
This summer roars and lights a fire under me

It convinces me I will never be cold again.
 
This moment
—longer, more sorrowful than it has any right to be—

holds me still
It convinces me I will never feel loved again.
 
This moment
—permanently, yet more fleeting than it has any right to be—

holds me close
It convinces me I will never feel lonely again.
 
This storm,
cleaving through the lands,

Howling.
It convinces us that the sky is falling; the world is ending
 
But creation is always found in the rubble of destruction.

And though the storms seem never-ending, it will pass.

We’ll live again,
Ricocheting between the extremes.