The Garden

I touched the blue leaves and the ice upon my fingertips melted in my skin. Blue veins, like my own, crept through the leaves in wisps of lavender, and I was overcome with grief for disrupting the temperatures of the earth. Yet, the some clovers which stood before me have never tasted the foreign fingertips of the earth's machines.

The frost covered thorned branches stared across the sky, but did not move. I ran my palm along the outer edges of a branch and watched defected snow die in my hands again. Guilty with my actions, I sat on the damp grass and gazed at the gray sky, dusted with streaks of white and indigo. Everything seemed to hold an undertone of light that connected, and I felt myself fade away within the skies and the leaves and the branches of blue.

Yet, I was overcome with despondence, as if the sky was fading into its white innocence while I sat in the envied grass. My heart had taken the life from earths togetherness and my mind had made me an enemy of the frost.