Am I the scarlet sumac, first out of the gate, blazing forth into new seasons? The crimson climber, loosely grasping earth as I burst toward the sun? Or am I the tired reeds, sounding summer’s death rattle even as I try to hold it within the dry brown bars of my prison? The dawn of new endings makes a phoenix of us all: goodbyehello, goodbyehello. Crown me with frost and I will evaporate into the sun, if that’s what it takes to fly.