No matter how I let myself, I must not happen again. It must

always be a new. But that we are what we can know. One

winter per year, it is rarely anything more than it was the previous year.

The trees stand up on a steep upward slope, their branches white

and the heaviness. I will never attempt to take myself in there.

© Pernilla Berglund, Increasing (2013), translated by Katherine Stuart