I Think of Summer

I think of summer
as autumn moves away
opening the doors to winter.

Strong gust of November winds
blow past my shell
ripping apart my safe house
just at the start of the cold.

Summer has ended,
a season gone
but work still remains to be done.

I’ve been lazy
dancing under the sun,
now I’ll shiver and run
at the sight of the beacon,
nature’s sign of change.

I think of summer,
but summer’s gone.
I think of the next summer.

I will always think of summer.

Keys to Open

How strange

is it to have to ask

for keys to

open our own hearts.

To ask someone else

to unlock it,

should the demon

escape from the dungeons.

What fills the heart

is but not a demon,

it is an angel.

Teach him to fly,

perhaps he’ll return to you,

if not, he will be free as

should be.

Teach her to swim,

and she shall conquer

the oceans ahead,

no matter how stormy

the weather.

How strange

is it to have to ask

for keys to

open our own hearts?

Space

If you were an artist

and I was an object,

what space would I

occupy in your canvas?

Would I be a fruit on the table

or a shadow beneath?

Or the painting inside the painting

or the floor spread all across?

Would you care

to splash your paint

and make space for me?