This is the last year.
There will be no other,
but heartless nature
seemingly relents.
Never has a winter sun
spilled so much light,
never have so many flowers
dared such early bloom.
The air is brilliant, sharp.
Never have I taken
such long, long breaths.
Joy is a piercing desire, a mystical longing both painful and sweet: a kind of homesickness for a home we scarcely remember.