End

Clouds stretch across the sky;

below, water stretches an equal distance.

At the edge of the water is grass –

and at the edge of the grass is desert.

Orchids open in the sunlight,

but cease to exist

when the air is bare of hospitality,

white winter spirits flying by.

The many tangles of one’s hair

could so easily be gone

with the simple snip of a scissor.

The bits and pieces dead

and littering the floor.

But would it be cruel to remove

such an imperfect feature?

To end it like the passion

in a child’s eyes after they play and laugh and tumble

then fall?

I have to make a choice.

To end this and start anew

or stay in the comfortable

past.