When You're Constantly Reminded of the Past Season, When There's No Hope for Change: A poem written during the SAT
April showers bring
May flowers
but sometimes they bring
breath-fogged glass, crimson hands-sapphire nails, patterned crystals:
Snow.
And only some people like
Snow.
Most people hate the way it
makes us shiver inside our skin, leaves footprints behind, takes the color out of everything:
White.
And when a morning should welcome you,
but instead it whispers
"Return inside,"
It's hard to be
excited
for the sunshine rolling over the horizon's backbone
anyway.