Centuries of Summer

Numbers are time
and we are relative
not by blood perhaps
but by mass
by matter
by sun and moon.

We haven’t come full-circle yet
like plants risen
from the cold earth in spring
blooming for the centuries of summer
only to fade
wither away in unison.
(or close enough)

There is a time where
we have left the seeds of our forefathers
hoping that in time
the winter and the cracks
its cold fingers force
into the ground
will warm.
Our offspring will rise
raise their heads to the heavens
smell the promise
that we smelled
feel the sun against their faces
as we felt
and more
grow to a point
where withering away
is no longer about fear
but hope.


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