Consider me a pale snowdrop sleeping cozy beneath the soil through autumn and blooming happily in the still depths of winter. I dread the coming summer, how it will trap me in my fragile body until I wither under the sun’s glare. There is no gentle transition from spring now, only an endless succession of lengthening days until even the brief night holds no refuge from the heat. The stale smell of ash and exhaust lingers beneath a hard, cloudless sky; gasoline rainbows glisten on stagnant water. Many other flowers bloom in this time, but I only shrivel and hope the seeds I leave behind survive until autumn arrives again.