a different kind of writing....

April 12th,
barren branches still stretching
eagerly toward the sky
expecting, in return,
the inevitable triumph of life.
Daffodils,
caught unaware by the sudden snow,
wilted
and mourning their lives
cut short

it’s not supposed to be…
…this soon.

Water, in stray puddles,
catches and holds the waning light,
reflecting shades of silver
into the encroaching night

it’s not supposed to be…
…this hard.

Our hearts break a little
in light of the unending winter…
we’re waiting for spring,
the return of the living,
the breathing and crying,
the bleeding and dying…
the shards of the heart
scatter far, scatter wide
seeking corners and crevices,
places to hide—
the tulips are waiting
to unlock their blooms
to rise from the ashes
of over-filled tombs

it’s not supposed to be…
…You

are the only one left here to blame,
to question, to shout at,
to bury my shame—
at the end of the day, nothing’s finished,
but

Everything’s changed.