The sun’s risen
above its curtain,
painting wide
the earth’s flesh
with a blinding display
of white-out.
To mute our rebirthed
chorus of cries,
we must look
without looking ahead.
We must break,
without breaking bread.
It doesn’t sustain
our malnourished minds.
We’re asking for drops
for an emptied ocean.
We’re seasonal
for how we fall.
We’re fatal
for staying still.
A hush without a vow
drives us into silence,
tells us not to shout
above the smiling room.
Without thoughts
to form letters
among piles of dust,
we remain as vacant
as an unkempt field.
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