Can we die in the springtime?
If we have to, anyway? You know that summer wears me out, and that autumn is a shade of winter.
I could never stand to remain among the icicles and cold for ever.
So let's stay here until the grass turns green and the ground is wet and the flowers come out, and we can laugh in each other's arms under the rain, and whisper "What If?" rather than "Within You."
We'll be wet and shivering, but the ground will warm us, and I can keep this hope, that takes me as a mother, that swells in my body. I can carry it for ever and live for ever in it.
Don't let go yet.