Poetic Interlude II

Within me there is winter

There is three feet of snow, and cold.

There is a packed path to the tap

Which has rods of ice frozen inside it.

Within me there is summer

There is skin raw from sun, and bleeding.

There are dead flowers on dead stems

Withered in the heat.

Within me there is spring

There are dead kits crushed by their mother, and rotting.

There is a laugh from dozens of dresses

Who tell me to my face that I am undesirable.

Within me there is fall

There is complete silence, and flame.

There is the smell of decay and dreams

Which tell me to leave before it is too late.