It’s hard for me to tell
What color the plants should be right now.
All the grass keeps dying and waking up again,
Like the predictably invincible characters
In an anime that should've ended
Three seasons earlier.
And the trees, eternally half-blooming
With tiny bright caterpillars of warm green,
Are still caught in the prolonged stranglehold
Of the mistletoe that thrives in cold winds
And frosted bark.
In my eyes, It’s almost as if
The parasitic chandeliers could be hesitant;
Lingering around, uncertain,
Loitering and pacing
With invisible little plant legs,
Tortured by the annoyingly realistic possibility
That there might be
Just one more cold morning,
Just enough time
To squeeze one more drop of life
From the thin fingertips of another
Before it wanders off again
In the heat of the evening.