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The frozen, icy water reminds me of my frozen mind,
of my very own icy existence. Then I see the grass.
The rebirth of nature. The moisture of ice,
the left over morning dew decorates the scenery,
and now, I too yearn to melt away my own ice.
To shed my frozen skin, frozen brain, and to thrive in nature.
To be so real. The slight quacking of ducks justifies the transformation of the seasons.
The breath of the wind on my skin chills my body,
but it is as if it is giving up, it is it's final blow.
The saccharine sunlight shines almost too brightly over the frozen lake.
There is no movement of water; it has been paralyzed for a while now.
The icy depths are sweating and will soon again sparkle and radiate under the blazing sheath of light. Can I too shed my coldness and transform?

In the midst of this seasonal metamorphosis I breathe in the contradicting elements
in their exposed states.





And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones






But oh, my love, though our bodies may be parted
Though our skin may not touch skin
Look for me with the sun-bright sparrow
I will come on the breath of the wind