Spring

The trees are dead.

Brittle grass, dried from a rainless sky
scorching even the death
buried
under desert skins: golden and treasured.

Sitting in the new chairs, black and ergonomic,
the smell of putrid, fetid
decay
wafts from the grass as it
masticates its fallen brethren.
Thumping in my chest increases,
breath staggers in the throat,
fingers claw for splinters
     --painful relief.

He said after eight years:
"I have no idea who you are."
He said while holding my heart:
"I have plans, but thank you for the offer for a ride."

The cloudless sky
smog ridden and brown tinted
churns as the cold front moves in.
          I'm alone on the hill
          Waiting, wanting, wallowing
          in the heat of the sun.

It's spring.
The world feels grasped
by skeletal hands.