Resurrection

Before the leaves turned gray and fell, I was alive in the most ordinary way -- that being that I didn't know I was alive. But after that death march of Winter -- in with the wind's clanging cymbals and out with sunlight's banging drums -- I found that I had died. I had died without remorse, possession, or inheritance. Which is, of course, the best way to die if you can manage it. Though I was unaware of my death, I was just as happy to die as to live. Still, someone decided it was not my hour. Who was I to complain? So they dug up my pieces, put me together again (though sometimes the joints don't work just right). Such is the thing of myths. But if you were to see me -- my skin bone dry and my teeth cracked like popping corn, you would know I'm too much reality. You would want a little fairy tale.