It is not summer I compare her to but to spring, this fine
May Day when green breaks through the grey, summer too brutal a season to seek,
even though rough winds of this season may blow away the buds we hope for, the
long days of summer do not happiness make, I ache for a moderate day like this,
when warmth seeps into my cold bones, slowly transforming what we thought of as
deceased into something that again breathe, I will not compare her to those
scolding days when the harsh yellow eye spies us from above, it’s strength has
no mercy, a season as brutal with its raging heat as its sister does in the
depths of winter, too much in the world dimmed by two bright a light, just as
our world grows numb when there is none but Gray, yet I will say, I ache for
the immortality of May when we can cling to the hope of what we feel will not
fade
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