Seasons

February 3, 2016

All around you, all living creatures
heave with a great sigh of exhaustion.
Not a single cloud lines the azure sky:
No shelter, no shadows, and no escape
from the infernal gaze of the angry sun.

The ground beneath your sandals cracks,
chapped like neglected lips in the winter.
But it is not winter. All the fires of hell
would be a blessing now, when just seeing
the sun burned peeling holes in your face.

Sweat beads on your skin, falling
off your nose, from your fingertips,
in a desperate attempt to heal the earth.
Already you smell of hard work,
the daunting task of being outside

in the heat.

 

A crispness lingers on the cool breeze.
You can feel it. You can taste it. Smell it.
Leaves everywhere float down to your feet
like the well-worn Persian carpets of legend.
You stand at the vanguard of life and death.

Under your boots squelch the stagnant remains
of the mighty trees’ crowns—half-rotted peasants,
a dull, serfly brown. But all crowns are destined
to fall, all gold to tarnish in the light of the sun.
Leaves are trod upon, if it pleases the master.

The cool breeze tickles your cheek, and you hear
the sharp, raspy sound of the dry, dying leaves,
too stubborn to rid themselves of their masters’
reign. But masters are cruel and merciless, shaking
their servants until there is no choice but to fly

in the wind.

 

The sun glares down on you with a cold,
unforgiving stare. You, and all your kind,
have been found unworthy of its warm kiss,
its comforting embrace. The quiet deafens you.
The stillness drives you to the brink of madness.

All sound is consumed by the white, merciless
spite of that fickle star. You pray for mercy,
you pray for your life, for warmth, for kindness.
You are given nothing but frozen sorrows.
The earth and all its denizens weep bitterly

for reconciliation. Streams of tears trickle
silently around the sole of your boot. All animals
have retreated to their sanctuaries. Wind chinks
against the icicles hanging from treebranches,
a reminder that only you remain, in the cold.

In the white.

 

Birds warble songs of their long journey
home, flying freely between branches,
searching for the perfect nesting site.
A green stem cautiously pokes from the soil,
preparing a safe passage for the tulips

still craftily hidden away in their bulbs.
Triumphantly, trees reclaim their glory;
foliage unfurls around a half-built nest.
You kick off your shoes; for the first time
in a year, you feel the cordial touch of grass.

You relax in the warm breeze. As you inhale,
slowly, through the rising corners of your mouth,
scents of new growth are so poignant you can taste
them on your open lips. You close your eyes,
and all thoughts drift away, floating higher, higher,

to the sun.

 

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