As the winter months grow nearer,

the air becomes too frigid to breathe,

and the snow coats all that is left exposed

like my mother’s voice blankets my deserted mind.

 

All of the birds and squirrels

retire from the falling leaves,

and all of the people

hide inside their homes and beneath their blankets.

 

The soil becomes uninhabitable,

yet people throw seeds at their feet

and beg for growth

among the frozen, bleak floor.

 

They ridicule the dying plants

for ill-fate, inept growth, and brown leaves,

forgetting they’re asking

life to bloom in a cemetery.