The world is made of crisp clear lines. It’s nice when things are clear and clean, but Sometimes the lights brighten and the lines grow sharp. Sharp enough to cut. When the world is made of sharp and bright lines, Things start to hurt. Everything is too loud. It’s not crisp or clear because everyone is talking And it hurts. My head feels fuzzy and the lights are still too bright. When everything is sharp and fuzzy and loud and bad, I take off my glasses. It doesn’t stop the lights from glaring, Or the people from talking, But it makes the lines a bit less sharp.
Spring comes as grasses leap forth and emerald hues are added to the landscape, with wildflowers peeking up from the dewy roadside. The world smells fresh like worms and earth, while birds drift down to finish last year’s seeds. Yellow rain boots hop out of shelves and into the puddles, while mud gathers and plays in the road, gurgling with mirth at passers by. The badminton net is resurrected, regally looming over the lawn, as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze. The fireplace gives a sooty yawn and falls to sleep. And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon a hot pan as the old and sour scent of the earth settles upon our plates, spring steps lightly onto the world.
~Yuka Oiwa May 6, 2008
This is an old poem I dug out of my computer's memory. Even though I wrote this in middle school I still really like the imagery little me came up with.