Your Laugh, at Last


DiAmaya Dawn
Mar 12, 2020 · 3 min read
Image by Ahmed Almabdi from Pixabay

Seasons traced on footprints of springs and summers and still,
white winters, autumns fall like the leaves of brown, bare trees.
The hands of time, cruel when I dare to look back, they cage
my feet, they keep me rooted in tomorrows that will never come,
They shut my mouth when all I want is to breathe, to laugh,
To shout, look! a caterpillar, a chrysalis — it’s a butterfly!