Hibernation

In one season, it all changes.
All that I know comes to bloom,
and comes to die with the flick
of a wintry wrist.

In September, I will make my bed
once more, I will feel the warm rush
of blood beneath my face, once more
before I sleep.

And in April, if I have survived,
please let the blooming flowers
know of my return,

so they are not too startled
when I spread my big fat toes
among their bristling stalks.