Anew

The colors were weak; dry; dusty like chalk, uninspiring like second hand tea. Searching for life would be a task fit for an army of surveyors down on their knees in charge of a suicide mission, recoiling from rebound, coming up short, wallowing in the reverie of failure.

Valiantly aloft, the runaway bride of darkness arrived with her mighty sword of leadership, cloaking the sky in totality, inviting renewal, signaling the vow of revival upon the horizon.

Jaws of life released the torrents pelting the gray cracked earth into submission, accepted without hesitation, cleansing the stench of death. Fingerlike streams worked fastidiously against gravity, burying the dead dry dust.

The north star looked down amused, understanding the dawn of commencement, watching the earth imbibe, impregnating into a bud, a blade, while the earth worm's second chance ignited.