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.
