delicate spring blossoms– lilies and irises misted with soft rains– 

and cotton skies dotted with singing swallows

are soon left with scorched petals, and clouds are

pulled apart by a blazing sun.

sun-kissed breezes carry bright laughter,

and the heat guards quiet secrets

(ones serene like a sunrise, as sweet as berries)

but the warm hazes fade to chilly airs —

the green scenery wilts away to browns and yellows.

the limbs of hard oaks 

jut from gnarled trunks, and roots

as thick as witches’ fingers 

curl over the cracked sidewalk. 

yet its fiery flesh is peeled away 

by the wind and litters the streets 

with its golden remains.

and the crested hills of winter

with fields of white like

pillowy blankets to stave

off the cold

melt away into a murky brown

sludge, staining the world

it once gently embraced.

flowers will once more blossom from the mud

with dew-speckled petals warming up the cold air

and the soft breezes turn to scalding embraces yet again.

the cycle starts again.