SPRING

my hands delicately rustle the

weeds, my fingers eager to

rouse and awaken the fallen

cherry blossoms;

 

yet, they openly defy against

my touch, to my delicate

soft prod;

 

how come? 

 

does nature feel

proud, as to have told me –

once again – that they will

never bow down to us and

obey?

 

(you win you win you win)

 

i kindly let their fierce spirits,

bask in its victory, for a 

moment; do they think

i am walking away in 

shame? 

 

are they not aware i am

en route to provoking

another wild, feral little

being of nature?