Spring is becoming a different season,
shrinking to something ascetic, lean;
the trees persist in blooming,
though rebirth comes harder every year.
The skin of my feet has dried to resemble
parchment, where sere cracks appear:
will it exfoliate in a puff of dust,
as the continent's surface does,
and mingle with myriad dislodged hectares
curdling the atmosphere?