I don’t trust nature
If I shook hands with the wind,
Winter would bite my fingertips.
It took every inch
Of the stripped branches;
Now scratching the horizon
For the chance to grow again.
No color, no snow
Only straw.
Just stich all the brittle
Broken leaves of fall
Into a quilt
To clothe a city of scarecrows.
And inside,
If my house catches fire,
I will rest by the burning wood.
Outside, it’s a cold that could drive
Fireflies to return to their hive in the sun.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
I don’t trust nature
If I shook hands with the wind,
Winter would bite my fingertips.
It took every inch
Of the stripped branches;
Now scratching the horizon
For the chance to grow again.
No color, no snow
Only straw.
Just stich all the brittle
Broken leaves of fall
Into a quilt
To clothe a city of scarecrows.
And inside,
If my house catches fire,
I will rest by the burning wood.
Outside, it’s a cold that could drive
Fireflies to return to their hive in the sun.