Poetry by Sixto Ocon
I, once, remembered how the Sun’s gentle, wood-charring rays
Would start to unfurl, and beat at the land
When I’d kindly ask the clouds if they could move out of the way.
Though, once, they didn’t leave, and the cold
Chilled my blood so that my flesh nearly crumbled away.
It had only ever been Winter and its puffy, grey
Armies that would lash me across the back with its icy
Cold air. I hated Winter and cursed its name,
Cursed its weapons, for how I wanted Winter to bleed.
But could you imagine my gratitude and love
To the Sun when Summer invaded Winter’s domain,
Cloud after cloud shot down by the Sun,
Their weighty bodies now littering the seas and
Adding to their waters. Though, this one stray arrow that missed,
Had struck the Earth in her belly, and set her ablaze.
But now that I’ve been on this angry, smoldering rock
Would I just like to tell Winter that I’m sorry, and
If they could please come back.
