Fickle

The leaves can't promise Autumn that they won't change or the trees when they'll return by Spring... When you come back, please kiss me like the bees do the roses in the summer, gently stroke my face like snowflakes in mid-winter... Cover me like the raindrops do in the middle of droughts that brings the hues of rainbows, dark skies and dull grey clouds, and the confused winds that don't know whether to blow left or right... I could have sworn I heard your name brought in by the breeze, whispered amongst the plants and branches, passed along to the worms and slugs, chirped to the birds and fireflies, landing to the cats and dogs, and finally, to me, that this time will be different... The caterpillar can't promise Autumn that they won't change or who they'll be by Spring. I guess I'll try again next season...