For Those Who Should Have Summer, A Winter Sun

A fist

On a weary body

Curled up in a little ball

Is so afraid

To open again

.

A tightly furled flower bud

On a weary bush

Able to blossom

But to afraid

Of the harsh cold winds that will come to ail it

.

The fist

Is too scarred

The mind attached to it

Is twice-bitten

And doesn’t want to make it

Hurt thrice

.

The bud

Covered in a tight green seal

Is attached to a stringy grey bush

That has weathered

Many a winter

And doesn’t want to greet

Yet another

.

But like the hand

The bud is forced open in time

At a time

Where some would say

Later is not better than sooner

.

But the hand

It’s in the sun

As is the blossoming flower

Enjoying a slight warmth

For the first time in forever

.

Both are in the sun

Both are in cold frigid winter sun

Of their new youth

.

Neither acted

At the time they should have.

Neither learned or understood

The summer and fall

And both are weathering the consequences

One thought on “For Those Who Should Have Summer, A Winter Sun

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