Four Seasons

They have grown to change with the seasons,
blooming more swiftly than sweet alyssums
after it had all begun
at the closing of a crestfallen Sun.

She savored the hints of saccharine nectar
that coated her skin—like fog
settling in at dawn—
chewing at her lips
before the taste was gone.

And although the winter demanded penance,
locking away the essence for such a confection,
the sweet source
eagerly beckons,
steadily still.

And readily
will a seam appear,
cracking the ice thin,
willing spring to break in
its revolutionary ardor.

By Gwen Peralta

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