The seasons will arrive more erratic than before.
A rip of winter
followed by a quake of spring.
There are no assurances. Every piece is 
ruptured.

You will never meet the man
whose shadow ate the world.
He tears through the mountain
and melts rocks in his mouth
like snow.
He's a wind and tremor and flame,
and you will not find him.

We're bunched leaves
nature kicks
into smaller and smaller piles.
The humongous child
abused.
And now she kicks harder
with inarguable rage.
The leaves around you shun guilt.

Yet when we rupture
we're only more erratic, and small
in our piles.
And someone hurt the girl,
destroying us.