she wonders

Seasons, she says,
Static, curves of predictability flickering, erratic,
cold like heat, like drops of drought,
like my grandmothers smile when I laugh at her jokes
Her jokes, alien and distant
I cannot translate back its meaning, I simply detect its being
with the curve of her lips
It is a signal that I should laugh
out of politeness,
my tongue
reaches for meaning,
wraps itself around nothingness
The silence screams endlessly-
until it is too tired to speak anymore,
until it too is broken,
like pieces of bottled glass,
like my curses and crushed cries,
like the smell I know too much like home
the scent of breathe drowned in ash and heat,
and its predictability, its permanence
it builds distance
like shame on a Sunday afternoon,
dry with thirst for an answered prayer,
a rebirth of color-
an end to the wrecked winter.
But the cold slits the strongest branches with his crown
and I too begin to bow at his feet.

And she wonders what season God presents itself as.
And she wonders if this world is just wind and passing seasons.