Just like that, winter died. All of the pain it caused me. The tears it squeezed out of me, and the times it wrung me dry like its dish cloth.
The months it had me writhing in pain with its icy little knife lunged in my side.
Funny, I never saw the end coming. I never sensed the sun’s approach, nor did I hear its distant calls of my name over the sleeping hills.
I suppose it wasn’t until my skin began to peel one night that I realised how closely it held me.
How it kissed me without me knowing and wrote its fiery words all over my skin.
In the dark, I now feel the hotness on the rise. In the black, I see the blinding ball in the sky.
I almost understand winter’s reasoning, but not quite.
Violence is not one of my desires, but I thought about strangling the cold.
Putting a blanket over its face until its bitter wind stammered mid air and fell to the ground like an injured bird.
Until its silver clouds dissipated in their suffocation, like cigarette smoke.
So the ever-present puddles in the grass finally seeped beneath the soil.