White Knuckles

I approached her in the cloister, and asked her what she was doing.

"Holding onto Spring for dear life," she replied.

"I see. And what of the funeral processional that will ensue in its wake? Will you hold onto that as well?" I inquired.

She looked up at Me, then back down, easing her grip as the words found resonance, until finally she let go–relieving the tension in her knuckles, neck and shoulder muscles, and mind.

It was Springtime–life abloom–yet Death lay dormant in its peak.