It drops, dangles along
the edge of a deep canyon.
It asks a question.
The crawling river's only reply
is a sad, sweet song.
"Sleep."
Whose echo decays gradually
through the rifts of the canyon
until eventually,
too,
the song is gone.

Today I planted summer.
I dug through the slumbering roots of spring,
the hollowed out tubes of earth where cold rested,
Biting through roots and earth and little bits of ice,
an ice colder than life and ice colder than death
rested, eating up all the warmth.

I started with this, the cold. I couldn't
melt them myself,
winter must always come again.
So I just pushed it off, the cold. I tucked it away.
Because I had the seed.
So I tucked the seed into the ground, beaming golden
I stepped away while it began to live, while its potential unfolded.
And oh, the potential.

Summer breezes, ocean tides, green grass,
new loves, the gold of sunlight. Barely audible, a voice sang.
Sang of melting and moving and shifting and growing and
burrowed into the earth finding all the cold
melting the frozen joints of the earth, to kiss the ice,
to stave off the freezing of the earth.

The energy of the sun and nature itself wound through that seed
and spread out through the soil.
And I, I only planted it. So I went home to wait for spring.

If I ever need to describe a *****, in words. In detail.
I know where to draw inspiration from.
I know exactly where to find it.
The spite, I think. You draw it out,
a long spindle of malice you
stab with.
Superiority, you know nothing of the struggles around you,
wrapped up in whatever
News article of drama starts circulating in your head and then you
Write your own letters to the editor.
Setting it straight, your side where you play the victim and you are misused and you are abused,
Without consideration to actual reality.
You, sicken me.
A secret? Let me paint it over buildings in the dead of night so in the morning, you must
Hide your face.
Hide.
It.
Now.
Let it be known that if ever
In any book
I write a character, a character with all the right environment.
Someone who picks evil, someone who picks the darker road.
They will have a trace of you in the very middle, a seed
That when they blossom will have spawned from my conceptual image
Of your very core.