February
by Kong V.
Pieces We Call Home by Megan O.
I sit here on this bench, which I have cleared the snow off of, and I feel very good spirited. Despite the vast white blanket that surrounds me, there is a particularly massive dominant pine tree that lies straight ahead of me. Other trees are roughly scattered throughout this beautiful mess of a forest. The air is tense for some reason. It has a chill feel and little breeze. Above me is an endless blue face with a scruffy, white, drifting beard. I try to smell the hints of spring, but I get nothing but the blank scents of winter. Birds were heard when I first got here on this spot, but I guess the footsteps of mankind has muted them from their role.
I hope to see these white sheets elope into the ground and unveil the lush green of the forest. There is really no way for man to rush the coming of spring, there is no way to delay it either. But why would you want to? Mankind live their lives in the building through the whole spring. They require the safety of brick enclosed shelters. So what matter is it to them, if spring should come sooner or later?
But who am I to tell people how to see winter, or the coming of spring? If someone wants to see snow as a menace to society, then let them. In the end, Mother Nature has the last say.
I hope to see these white sheets elope into the ground and unveil the lush green of the forest. There is really no way for man to rush the coming of spring, there is no way to delay it either. But why would you want to? Mankind live their lives in the building through the whole spring. They require the safety of brick enclosed shelters. So what matter is it to them, if spring should come sooner or later?
But who am I to tell people how to see winter, or the coming of spring? If someone wants to see snow as a menace to society, then let them. In the end, Mother Nature has the last say.