A spot to sit. The world moving by, grounded, yet flying from a simple steamer seat. The trees bend radically as the storm swells and moves the world. Tulip leaves from the poplar trees, the ones I most hate, stream down, making a disgusting mess.
I hope the coming downpour will wash them down the hill and out of my life.
I should find the beauty, but they only say to me nuisance. And it hurts.
Because yet, I have not accepted the world is not on our side.
Now the rumble as mother nature explodes, taking the tulips away.