I write words onto newborn leaves,
hoping they'll grow into poetry
with the sun's nurturing light

Almost like urban anonymous
except all the birds see that it's me
crying dewdrops
spilling snowdrops on the soggy grass
still thawing from chills

But without these words
and letters, phrases
and ideas
I would be withered and dry,
a dead garden forgotten,
but the flowers from greener pastures
can rise higher to Taurus than
I ever could

So when I sit outside at night
I ask Orion for his belt
to give to a schoolgirl
to make it easier for her to keep
her flowery skirt up
when the wind blows boys
and rain in her direction

But the stars don't twinkle twice,
scoffing from mid-zenith at me,
a weed in the forbidden forest
starting to fill to the brim with waterfalls
and downfalls,
and I ask myself and that girl
where life will come from
when all we can do is wait
for the numbness of winter
to fade away

In the end,
we're all made of stardust and spring -
born from death

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A/N: This is one of my poems from Allpoetry, where I write as Viking.