the approuching summer
We sat in the spring air; it casts a chill on the skin in these early days. The idea of the warmth of summer is only an idea. The sun is there to be seen but yet not felt. These moments are chameleon in the skin of memory. A step forward in this year, a step closer to the inevitable end, the rush forward only propels the end. The years stack on top each other. And in the end we have only the rings of neglect and the moss of age. These spring days remind us only of the fact the fruit of promise is unripe, and bitter when tasted too early.