There are things that even time
cannot mend; seasons, that cannot be
undone.
...
We were summer birds;
of bold colors, and
of the open moors,
with wearied wings,
and hallow breastbones,
still, too eager
to fly.
Featherless. We've grown webbed feet
from the cold, dull beaks
from crayfish, and
unknown carcasses,
that were washed ashore
dead.
Winter came, and winter stayed.
Yet, we never truly learned
how to fly.
...
In age and sadness, beneath
the shady limbs, and
shedding furs of fogs,
recovering a few shards
of pride,
here, we are,
too early, and
too late,
for, it is when the sun's
within our grasps, that summer
never comes.
