04-01-2022, 10:12 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-01-2022, 11:42 PM by Quixilated.)
My conversations always fall with the leaves.
They burrow deep and wait under the weight
of snowdrifts and solitary stars in a crisp, cold sky.
Like a wild thing, the seasons dictate my days;
the winter commands stillness and solemn thoughts.
Then April pours itself down out of the sky
in fickle torrents of warm snow and cold rain.
The indecisive earth becomes formless,
malleable, easing the way for fragile shoots,
but for those without roots, it only squelches.
April is for waiting with bated breath to see
the first purple crocus fight its way into the sun,
to hear the birds scolding among the branches,
to remember that silence too has its season,
and even I must emerge eventually.
They burrow deep and wait under the weight
of snowdrifts and solitary stars in a crisp, cold sky.
Like a wild thing, the seasons dictate my days;
the winter commands stillness and solemn thoughts.
Then April pours itself down out of the sky
in fickle torrents of warm snow and cold rain.
The indecisive earth becomes formless,
malleable, easing the way for fragile shoots,
but for those without roots, it only squelches.
April is for waiting with bated breath to see
the first purple crocus fight its way into the sun,
to hear the birds scolding among the branches,
to remember that silence too has its season,
and even I must emerge eventually.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara