what does your pillow hear?

the seasons seem to come and
go much faster now.
today, it is the spring,
and flower buds are learning
to stand on fresh, malleable
soil, cracking unflexed joints
to reach fragile white arms
to the sky if only to taste
that liquid sustenance that only
comes from the pepper-spotted

brown clouds. and the sky
bends to the will of Gaia;
small leaflets contort to
unholy angles as the droplets
spiral and make impact upon
the wax-coated surface. the
ground moves as floods make
runoff streaming through
newfound rivers and
wrinkled canyons.
animals find new shelter
in the warmth of inundation,
and their fur prickles at the touch
of gentle aqueous beads
massaging their backs.

there is no thunder in this rain.
it is not yet summer.

the waters are silent
and forceful,
but the earth has learned
not to break. a nearby
moon does not realize its force
of gravity as wave tides rise
on a glistening lake. the flowers
are drowning but have no words.
this is what they asked for.
this is what they needed.
this is the antithesis to the
cold, harsh winter where
photosynthesizing parents watch
their dead children, blue and
broken, hoping that snow and water
are the same; or the deceivingly
chilly autumn where they saw
their young ones first fall
into the dirt; or the bright,
loud summers where lightning

cracked infants' ears of corn
into splintered cobs. liquid
asphyxiation is better than
outliving the brevity of a seed
in unwatered soil. the seasons
change so much faster now, and
the sun is threatening
to shine again, but then
my son will die again, and
i am tired of the moon's apathy, but
i don't know how to muster
enough electricity to get
the thundercrack to propagate
through such a large, empty space,
and a gentler water droplet
kisses my son where i cannot,
so i just watch him
breathing carbon dioxide
as softly as the ground
he will lay in.