Four distinct seasons,
Each with their own beauty,
Ambiance, weather, and color,
All for us to enjoy.

I must admit,
Winter’s my favorite.
I like feeling cold,
Not freezing cold,
But cold enough so that when you encompass yourself with blankets,
You feel the comforting warmth of home.
I love the look of the planet,
Underneath a blanket of snow,
The smoothness of the white,
Prettier at night.
The snow as it falls,
Gorgeous as well,
Everywhere you look,
A painting could be painted,
And the beauty would be upheld.
Snowmen on the lawns,
The festive season,
What’s not to love?
Hot chocolate by a fire,
Tales of reindeer flying high in the sky,
All these reasons are why,
Winter’s my favorite.

Followed close behind in both timing and rank,
Springtime.
The weather looks nicer,
The flowers bloom once more,
The rain may seem inconvenient,
But it’s something to be thankful for.
The pitter-patter on my window at night,
Makes me feel,
For a moment,
That everything’s alright.
Don’t forget the flowers,
Of many shades of colors,
How I look forward,
To when the Indian Paintbrushes grow.
Sunflowers,
Irises,
Roses,
Daisies,
And all the others,
Makes the season more special,
Nature’s a wondrous thing.

Now comes the one I least adore,
But still, I know,
It has its strengths.
Summertime,
Is my least favorite.
I’ve never liked the heat,
Especially when it exceeds a hundred degrees,
That’s a bit excessive to me.
It’s the time,
To hit the beach,
To be at peace,
I can practically hear the waves.
Vacations typically wait till this time of year.
Fireworks,
In America,
The booms,
Something to behold.
The weather,
While not ideal for me,
Is still wondrous to see.
Maybe in my later years,
I’ll appreciate the beauty of summer.

Last but not least,
Fall or autumn is third on the list.
Things cool down,
Leaves fall down,
From their trees.
Reds,
Oranges,
Yellows,
And browns,
Litter the grown,
Entrancing the eyes.
They’re something to see,
But not worth to speed.
The crunch beneath your feet,
The air blows deep through the trees.
Halloween,
And the Thanksgiving feast.
Bliss at the finest degree.



The Earth isn’t the only thing,
That goes through seasons,
Life does the same.
Some seasons are dark,
Without a light in sight,
But it’s there,
It’s always there.
Other seasons a filled with joy,
Take those in,
Enjoy the moment,
Because for better or worse,
Like the seasons of the Earth,
It always comes to pass.

Life is here now, I can breath.
This is more than enough.

When I left, perhaps I was afraid
of the bottomless chasm I left behind me -
Leaving bridges, sure
But who’d be brave enough
to cross them?

On the other side, I left dreams
that I’d outgrown, blossoming in the
spring sunshine.
(Doesn’t the grass always look greener
On the other side?)

And there, too, I left memories -
They permeated every single street,
and every flower that a
lovestruck girl had ever given
(It was me. I was that girl.)

I left behind notes, engraved on
sagging sycamores - old little jokes,
and dares, and promises.
(P + N. Do you remember?)

And bits of myself still wander
in apartments that collect dust,
or stranger’s whispers.
Maybe you can still hear my childlike
laugh, trapped in the highest point
of a rusting swing.

And there, too, I left nightmares
tear-filled nights that stretched forever
in the company of doubt, and silence
(and insomnia).

And in that same place…
I left you behind.
I didn’t think you’d be brave enough
But who am I, to think I
know you better?

I’d cross the bridge halfway, homesick
some days, longing
for the younger self I left
behind. And there you’d be -
Cross-legged, smiling,
waiting for me in between.

I miss you, and I love you,
even if I don’t say it enough.
Thank you for loving me enough
to stay - even thousands of miles
apart.

Wearing songdance
Long time ago
Weaving a picture
Motion-slow

Grasping the nature
Of the unknown
Stumbling, falling
On the hard floor

Words, what are they?
Abstract objects in mind?
Fears? Seem so heavy,
But are rarely right.

Strange debates
One perceives
But it depends
On what one believes

Once projection
Takes over one's mind,
Chains reaction
Makes one real blind

And disconnected
In the abyss
May one still be able
To call life a bliss

Beauty may differ
In stranger's view
Mountains may move

If love is true.

The path of life I once beheld,
Until I agreed to be born into this world,
I knew the reason without a doubt—
You, destined to be my mother.

In a world of right and wrong, painted gray,
Your color shines as white to me
In another life with or without choice,
I choose you.

It's good,
To wake up and,
Know that there is a place here,
Where I can be me, you can be you, and we can do it as one.

this wasn't our first time
at the waffle house
sitting across from each other
staring out the window
at fading car lights,
astigmatism placebo running rampant
(or maybe just greasy windows).
  this wasn't our first talk
about you wanting to die
sometime late at night,
we talked for hours
the week before this,
tears, sweat, and trembling lips.
  this was our first meal
we shared together at night
after hopeless thoughts
in late december
before your brother's wedding.
  this wasn't the last time
we'd see each other again,
or order the fully loaded hashbrowns,
or talk about suicide,
that would come in time.
  this is the first time
I've thought about this memory
and have been grateful for your marriage
and how far you've come
from eating garbage at 2am,
from wearing the punisher hoodie I gave you,
from drinking mike's hard lemonade,
from feeling lonely and hopeless
and wanting to end your life.