Colors Never Change Like The Seasons: Poetry

In the spring, I would run through the sprinklers and see them watching to see if my color would change.  I felt free in their glances, not knowing that they were wishing to change me like the seasons, they thought that surely the sun rays mixed with water would wash away the brown flaw that was spread across my body.

But by summer time, I’d discovered that those stolen glances from bigoted thieves made me uneasy; my easily darkened skin could set fire to the edge of people’s comfort, as if the sun were setting their intelligence on fire. But I found solace in knowing that surely it was a struggle living with a small mind in such a big world, heated debates fed the cold-hearted in a way that kept them in neutral temperatures.

Autumn had a funny feel about it though. Made one forgive the trees, as it would eventually lose its leaves, much like the man would leave the earth, and another would grow in his place. Each time, in each place, replaced with new unfamiliar faces. Hopefully one’s that like to watch the new leaves grow, those leaves representing an open heart and an open mind.

That would prepare them for winter, when only holding hands can protect them from freezing hearts under the moon shine, and each man becomes every man, no longer fearing for the future but loving all the present, until we are all running through the sprinklers again and instead watching together for the seasons to change.


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