Donald P. Goodman IIIVersion 1.0,
What so few months before now made us glad and warm— the gentle rain that lovingly caressed the ground and serenaded, like a lullaby, with sound— now bites us, bitter, kindly shower turned to storm, those gentle drops become a cutting, driving swarm of piercing, freezing points to frailest flesh inbound and frigid puncturing where tender skin is found, to gentle comfort to a misery transform. Oh, what a difference makes a season! warmth and life decayed, refreshing water a tormenting pain; yet was not e'en the spring a scene of war and strife, though colors, warmth, and growth a peaceful scene did feign?
For in this vale of tears there never is true peace, for though we see the fragrant flowers and growing green there's hidden battle raging in that verdant scene, with growth contesting growth, all struggling to increase, and choke with roots and shade all else that seeks a piece of soil and sun; and though the meadow seems pristine these floral fields are far more fierce than they're serene, all living things in deadly combat ne'er to cease. But even in the violence that's under all, the leaves spread out and flowers color in full bloom; and nature, though it thrives in war, is not its thrall; and sun will e'er outshine the darkness and the gloom.
There's beauty in the barren, and indeed in death, for all who in this tearful vale can still draw breath.