Her name was Summer.

It always comes back to the sun for her, life Of searching for it, dreaming of it. She Felt the loss of it before She knew it, born in the frigid winter, where the sky was Covered with impermeable white clouds reflecting the ground below them.

Shes gone mad for finding the warmth, and searched him the places the sun never touches. Mistaking lightbulbs for Sun rays that can not burn away when the wind blows heavy.

She grew in a closed cabinet, quickly but frailly, springing shoots up towards where the sun should be. And each day She grow more lifeless, trying to salvage what energy is left from her own seed.

She looked for herself In the unexpected particles of light that dance across the afternoon, the shattered bits of cosmos that she clings to, as if She could actually snatch them from the air and hide them away in her tattered pocket.

It is the curse of the sun to shine and shine and shine until she is used up. It is the curse of us all that no one ever saw it coming. That the life lived so frivolously under her warm arms, so carefree and careless, will end. That we are set in a life where she will save any sunlight for herself.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I liked the poetry. You touched on many subjects.
"Shes gone mad for finding the warmth, and searched him the places the sun never touches. Mistaking lightbulbs for Sun rays that can not burn away when the wind blows heavy."
The above lines, I did like. When we give everything away. Can we know peace? Thank you dear Rebecca for sharing the amazing poetry and your thoughts.
Coyote