You wake up, and feel a gentle squeeze on your heart, Joy’s hand had gently seized it
And honey starts to drip, shyly entering the crevices of you
Is this day sweet? Not everyday you greet one with this tender a heart
Now I have never felt true winter. Where I was born and raised, it either rains or burns
And sometimes it’s a mixture of both – makes you simmer
What is it about melting ice that makes you think it is to be deciphered as a symbol for “life returning”?
(Spring, they say)
But who needs winter to explain the cold? If you’ve been there, you know it’s true
We never really get to choose which season we will breathe,
Whose arms or lips will mesmerise us
Is it the cooling waves of hemisphere’s tropical summer escapade
The burning breath of Northern mountain’s chilly breeze
Or the metamorphosing caress of a season ’bout to slip between the two extremes?
(Unless of course you run away from coast to coast a fugitive of seasons.)
So when the ice began to climb up the crystal glass
Unknowingly began to form the ice out of warm water
Breath by breath, sheet by sheet, we’re bound to realise
That heartbeats are the last to give itself away
And when Spring comes, true passion will “unfrost” itself under the sun
When grace has brought her there.
Even the frozen heart can find a way back to its Summer, thanks to Spring.
And then suddenly, so gradually before but sudden now, it wakes up at the touch of day.
If death is but sleeping and enduring Winter is but waiting for the bloom
then the seasons must be one and the seasons do conspire.
And they bring this to my cheeks, the awaited kiss of a Summer day.
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