The beautiful calm white winter,

And the violent harsh spring rushing it away.

The act of melting, changing forms to fit the season. 

There is no chance of clinging, you're going to become something new.

It was never your choice.

For a time, it is simply desolate. 

A clean slate, 

A cloudy day.

You're alone in your bedroom rotting.

Waiting for the first flowers of spring.

Waiting for the time that you are finally more than bare trees and mud. 

There is nothing you can do to jump start the process, 

And no one is waiting for you.