The trees illuminate with a brilliant radiance,

shadows of bushy branches break the sunlight,

and birds sing songs to neighboring beings.

The air smells of something sweet

like the best parts of nature.

Time stops.

Moments come to a standstill.

Enjoy this.

Feet fervently dip into the clear liquid.

Plunged into rejuvenance.


Cold water.


Yet sometimes,

The wind blows an obscure objective.

The trees grow heavy with burdensome snow,

and shadows of bare branches stand lonesome in the dark.

Birds find comfort in places far away,

for the air smells of something stale

like the sticky interrior in the heavy, humid heat.

Time stops.

Moments come to a standstill.

Dread this. 

Feet reluctantly transcend into the frigid liquid.


Cold water.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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