Coming of Seasons


The winds whisks gently

across the landscape

bringing a spring

to Mother’s growth.

 

The girl inside

can see

yet is unable to feel

the whirl in her hair

the spring in her step.

 

Mother

is unable to guide her along

when she dwells here

in concrete halls

under tar roofed skies.

 

The girl is

unable to break free of

the hardened halls

the clocks of stone.

 

The winds whisks gently on.

The coming of seasons

means more than it seems.

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