She prepares as if for a lover, eye closed as clear water cascades through the tendrils of Winter’s remains. Waiting has become precarious, teetering on a fence line, a rollercoaster of winds bearing southern promises. She waits each year, fresh and virginal, ready to ripen in the warm sun. In four moons, age will have marked her for harvest, the drying tissue fading with the daylight. Such are seasons, waxing and waning, reminders of mortality.
Categories: Poetry