On a morn served chill.
She sat at the edge
Of a stone bench;
With her feet drowned
In a shallow ocean of green lawn.
She wore a blush of demure
As she gripped
A few dew studded blades
Between her toes.
Her hands clenched the cold slab
Beneath her warm and gentle palms.
Her gaze was now glued to gravity
While her thoughts wandered defying everything.
Of the earth’s 25 seasons and 25 revolutions
Which she had witnessed and grown in;
This winter’s arrival in particular
Was so unlike the others.