Oh, Summer,
Isn't it great how
you make people so
happy?
It must feel
wonderful.
All I do is
prepare them for
you and your
joy.

Yes, Spring,
I make people
happy, and yes,
that is very
important.
But without you,
they would not be
ready for my
sudden punch
of warmth and
it would hit them like
a truck.
So aren't you really the
more important one
here?

Oh, but I am but
the lonely whispers
of two conflicting times.
I am the last thoughts of
Winter, and I am just
hinting at your
arrival.
I say nothing
outright.
I am a coward, a lonely
star, and you are
the brave and
brilliant
sun.

My friend, if only
that was true.
I am welcomed at
first, but before long they
grow tired of me.
I am relentless, and
I desperately cling to
them in the hopes that
they will always
love
me.
Alas, my friend -
alas, it is not to be.
The tighter my
grip, the more they
wrest away from
me.
Praytell, Spring,
what is so
appealing about
Summer?

Your
your
your
your blithe
ignorance, I
suppose. Anything is
more appealing than
Spring.

Once I looked in the
mirror and I saw
myself, but not
what I wanted to
see.
My reflection is
distorted, but I look
the same as in any
other mirror or
poem or
drawing and I am left to
wonder, is it the
mirror that is
broken or is it
me?
-ignis

There is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of the town.
She is young.
Little ringlets of copper brown
frame her delicate face.
Wide eyes of the purest sky blue
scan the trees.
She is looking for something.

She stands up
and straightens her skirt.
Her legs shiver,
and her socks grow heavy with water.
Nobody is around to question her,
about why she's out in the snowstorm.
She wouldn't answer anyway;
she's too focused.
She is looking for something.

Cautious steps now.
The ground is slippery with ice.
Her boots do not hold
because they are too worn from walking.
Finally she reaches it,
the edge of the sidewalk.
She peers intently into the grove.
Her blue eyes narrow.
She is looking for something.

All is silent,
except for the flurries of snow.
Before long there is a blanket on the ground.
It is thick powdery snow.
It collects in her boots and on her scarf,
and she shudders as the ice
presses against her porcelain skin.
But she is silent, focused.
She is looking for something.

After a moment,
she steps back and sighs.
There is a slight smile on her lips.
Her nose is red and drippy with cold.
Still, she is silent,
though not by choice.
She has no one to talk with.
It's barren.
She has found what she was looking for.

What it was I can't say.
Either I don't know,
or it's not my place,
or you could ask her yourself.
But there is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of town,
and she is happy.

As it turns out,
there is more to falling
than just the fall.

There is, for example,
the thought.
The, "what the hell" kick of
adrenaline that keeps your
engines running.
The, "make it stop" sort of
desperation that sends you
somewhere beautifully
terrible.
The thoughtlessness of
being pushed that is somehow so utterly
unforgivable but still exhilarating.

There is the actual falling.
S
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
d
o
w
n
or sometimes
s
  l
    o
       p
         i
           n
             g
and even sometimes
f l a t  o n  t h e  g r o u n d.

There is the flight.
w                                                         d
       i                                              a
             n                                 e
                  g                       r
                       s              p
                               S
like a bird's and waiting for
the air to lift you
up so your feet don't touch
the soil.

The darkest part of flight is
landing.
It can be as peaceful as
the baby being
d
r
o
p
p
e
d
from the stork's
beak but it can also be
painful and
sudden and
harsh. But the main thing about hitting the ground is
your fall is over and
who wants happiness to
end?