Old stuff · Poems · writing


I wish the storm would blow you my way, in its violent winds you like to play, until a frozen gust throws you away. You’re never the same the next morning.

Ice creeps with cold abandon, it flows through the frozen earth. Rooted to the ground, it oozes up the trees until every autumn leaf is gone.

The lotus frowns and then cries out, the isolation overwhelms her. A cold stillness settles through the trees only to be broken by the thawing of the spring.

Baring shoulders, softened heat, grey cold nights make way for days bathed in a golden light. Sun rays drip from the trees like rain, burning as that water stings cold.

Walking oblivious to any bird’s song, more interested by the cracks in the street, waking as they travel along, bobbing to anything but the master’s beat.

Sycamore honey bees will do anything to please, beckoning the summer in by falling to their knees.

The summer rages wild and hot, with no room for reflection until its enemy the autumn breeze starts to pay attention.

Crisping leaves and forgiving winds bring the lotus back again. She takes her toll and we’ll never know if she’ll survive the winter.


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