Melting snow dribbles down the tree trunks, dripping off
still stiff branches winter has yet to release, wet oozing down the ribs in the
bark like sweat, soft, glistening, still white from the eruption after the
rigidity of ice.
This is supposed to be spring, and perhaps there is a sense
of softness in this moody world, a glimmer of hope in this slithering aftermath
as steam rises into the air I breathe, beams of sunlight painting my face,
making me blush, life’s gentler side caressing me and my life, until me and my
world shiver and melt, rivulet of something moist flowing inside me,
overflowing some internal banks until I am overwhelmed and can barely breathe
for drowning.
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