Weird Weather

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.

It’s March,

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.