| by MercurySeven |
 The blood in the bruise is a captive, the body its captor and dam; our continents frozen as oceans, existence a wintery clam. Might blood-spilling thus be a cleansing, and re-generation be rife? Might Spring be a prick in the ice-skin that floods forth a fountain of life? The sequel to long hibernation; all quills that will write it must grow - the feathers from nest and adventure; the ink from a muddying snow. Each seed that we plant is a vowel; the consonants consequently recalled by the syntax of Nature - that lock to our fumbling key. Though earth may be wilting with fever, and seasonal blueprints are smudged, there's hope in our planetary cycle; for such have our eons adjudged the soothing that follows the winter; catastrophe only a sting - the bruising of life a reminder to savour the solace of Spring! |
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