Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns

Spring Will Come Again

Spring Will Come Again

With chafed skin,
I wallow through
an offending flurry,
to defend
a flawless credence,
as the cretin wind
blows.

To amend my clouding breath
and the colors lacking,
I depend on
the recurrent hints of the sun
and the creed of change
through the comfort of time:
a pretend game
ascending to hope
that the sap will reach
my roots
once more.