He couldn’t see the winter
She didn’t let him.
She pushed him away
Whilst he was still in spring
And amongst the bloom
He couldn’t see the twigs
Her arms
Lost of colour.
And he didn’t know if there were sometimes small beauties
He didn’t know what snow looked like on a withered branch
He would’ve liked to see it all
But she couldn’t bear to let him see the orange creeping in around the edges
Because she knew it would turn to brown
And she didn’t want him to see her colours fall
But he would’ve liked to
He would’ve sacrificed
His spring to see her winter.
Contributor
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Andrew Hall is a ginger-haired disabled writer and alternative film poster maker from the United Kingdom, and he finds that whole situation simply hilarious. His poetry and short stories have been published in various places such as Magma Poetry, Variant Literature, and Owl Canyon Press – he can be found on Twitter: @CripOnATrip21.