Scape

A neutral dull glow, as a Winter's sun peaks,

Father Time's icy fingers, graze the brow, and the cheeks.

Rites initiated by ancestors, he anoints skin with age,

Observed by the falling of a calendar page.

Heavy are the lungs, packed and weighted with snow,

A star collapsing inward, then ceasing to glow.

Searching through blanched light, bare canvas of beige,

Aching for freedom, a fresh breath from the cage.

A quake in the crust, a seedling ruptures through,

A paint daub of green, a scape reaches up to sky blue.

Dreams existing in plain sight, not always seen,

Coat each petal with color, a slick liquid sheen.

Each vibrant hue sensed in skin just by sight,

The rarest is hope, felt in the absence of light.