The winter sky trembles as the gunshots
tick off the dead column in little children’s
Last Summer, who knew
there will be people who wished they knew;
because summers are open wide and wild.
Some keep the doors open whole day.
Some move the calling bell to where kids
can reach them.
Some move the curtains and look through
the window. May be the snow flakes can tell
some story they don’t know.
Winter is harsh, but for some it is the summer.
I have also seen those who have autumn’s harsh
I know no one can fight the seasons.