Mind returns to the thick grass that entangled my toes -

my face itches as the sun expands.

A cool breeze complements the scorching brightness

that used to cleanse the pores of my skin.

Deep orange,

violent red, colors explode across the mountain bluffs.

 

But,

when I return again in winter,  

I see

flower buds, tricked by the premature season,

poke their heads to find

a deceptive Spring.  

Frozen water molds to their newborn petals.

They fall into the snow,

never to be opened again.  

 

Every time I go back to what was once was covered by the bright grass,

I seem to step into the complexity of the fake season.

 

Black smog puffs into the white sky and the plants

forget the rhythm of their breath.  

As thermometers rise, little bunnies peek open their sweet eyes,

and are confused by the warmth on their noses.

 

Sweat rolls down my spine,

and falling to my knees,

I apologize to

the drooping trees, gray sky, and depleted flowers,

all of which my own kind has betrayed.