Picture us then: Our years are shining and edgy. We are dancing under summer, skipping lightly over winter. The greening and drying and yellowing and nothing of leaves exist only in nature, not in us; the calendar is long and smells of fresh ink.

Picture us then: Our years are heavy sponges laden with water. We squeeze out rain on hot dusty days, then count the minutes until equinox. In our worn hourglass bodies, tired organs mark time by falling into dust. The calendar is yellowing.

Picture us now.