Tempus Fugit

Twelve o'clock
Breathing. Life. 
Puffs of clouds from cigarettes travel through looming trees
Like miserable memories meandering away
Through a cerulean sky. 
Three o'clock
Skeletons of crops
Cry out for water
Like how I pray for shoes
As I pace along flaming white sand. 
Six o'clock
Crackles of firewood. 
Fallen leaves sink, golden like Atlantis 
The promise of rain merciless to dry land. 
Nine o'clock
Thick blankets of snow flooding the greenery. 
Grass reaches out for air, failing
Like the wind buffeting against my window
As I'm cradled by hot soup and cocoa. 
It's almost Spring again.