I fear love will always be elusive
like morning dew. I fear my own stormcloud in the distance.
I fear I will freeze before the spring.
I fear my sun will burn such gentle skin,
and sting. I fear I cannot heal what hurts
because I do not think to try. The butterfly and bee
are more fragile than I am, but I fear
their tiny strength still outweighs my own.
I fear my grass will shrivel up and die,
green to brown. I fear my transition.
I fear my water will run dry
as does my patience. I fear my cold front that comes
in January, which I fear is as unpredictable as I am.