Summer trees are deluded, thinking
their blossoms will last; closure will arrive, whether they
like it or not.
Winter drowns out their
summer buzz, ensnaring their feel-good high.
Frost cloaks their drugged corpses,
they convulse underneath icy hallucinations;
smothered by Winter’s crisp white sheets.
The trees dangle helpless,
ensnared in coma
snowy gales strangling their dreams.
They don’t know
they will survive Summer’s withdrawal;
none of them ever know.
They awaken, thinking
it a miracle,
as it should be.
Miracles are the outstretched palm
to the addict seizing on the ground.
Struggling,
but now;
saved.