The Flowers are Waxing Poetic

I wonder what Spring and Colour do
while they observe from the alcoves
of their Season.

I like to think they flirt
and wax poetic about van Gogh,
calling themselves a muse;
that they romance each other,
then dance until they’ve spun
into warmth and light.

As the months pass
Spring becomes overworked,
while Colour weeps itself
back into the soil;
flowers fall at their feet
like a gift
though they know
it’s their sacrifice.

I imagine them as characters
sprouting from fiction
because the earth is harder to abuse
when we see it through stories:

Seasons and their cyclic lovers,
battles between ocean and heat,
canopies slaughtered for trunks,
madmen who blame fate
rather than choices.

If these stories were taught
like Shakespeare,
perhaps we would care more
about how they end.