Tentatively,
(unfurling like
the first words of a poem)
I slide into the pool of
words
and summer.
Just because the winter kissed me
with tastes-like
(smells-like)
hatred,
doesn't mean I can't blossom
into this season.
I'm trying so hard,
and it's leaving everlasting pockmarks
on my already tired skin.
Maybe the sun can burn away
the sheen of winter
from my eyes.
Everything is golden,
and quite possibly
(or more likely
not)
I can immerse myself into
the late-morning
green grass season
and learn to swim
again.
