Seasonal Feelings Poem by Justin Houseman

his lungs fly into the forest of frost,
into that empty air on wings.
no dust, no pollen, just cold air.
it's not the wind that cuts into him
so hard, but the empty chill in the wind
that cracks his back, popping joints,
tingling the spine that tries standing
upright. as no pine withstands a
tornado, he falls to the snow, with
warm rosy cheeks melting away
at the ice wall he's been building.

it's more than ice; it's more than wind.

the crocus could not bloom sooner,
before the frost even leaves and it
already seeks the sky. no sun yet.

he bites the lollipop with his front
teeth, like an eager child, trying
to reach the center too quickly.
nothing ever outlives itself so fast
as a crocus. early to bed is early
to rise. early to rise is early to bed.
there's only so much time before
everything is dead. early to bed.

the treasure is buried for a reason.

tea time starts every day, exactly
two o'clock. one sugar lump too
many, and the tea is oversweet.

lose the watches and other clocks.
we have the white rabbit in a cage,
the rabbit who knows it all: he knows
the depth of the fall, the journey we
shall make, the shade below the roots
of carrots we won't reap. he knows
what we don't. we should learn it all.

take the fall of slowed down time.