white noise

It’s too abstract, I know, but today, I don’t really care:

Spring and winter have skewed.
Yesterday’s budding leaves dry out,
become withered old fists,
while once-pink blossoms
freeze to their limbs.

Thirty-two souls are adrift
on the wind,

the thirty-third sinks to earth,
leaves an oily black stain.

The chill wind bites again. Now,
only winter remains.