In Spite

How many breaths are actually sighs?
Count them
Count sunsets count crickets count snow angels
Count them in spite of the cold –
find a quiet moment
In your mother’s sun-lit porch
At your grandpa’s overgrown grave
ephemeral feelings weave themselves
Through fingers and fall away

In spite of the calm
You won’t rest until green blades
Pull themselves through your scalp
When you tuck dew and ice behind your ear
braid daffodils down your back
When the weight of the world
On your chest is finally just dirt
And when you no longer need to breathe

you exhale in spite of it all