Where I’m from,
we don’t call it summer,
we don’t call it winter—
no, our seasons have their own names.
In the cold, rainy season,
we slid through the mud like children chasing freedom,
our feet slick with the earth’s laughter.
fnj
Where I’m from,
we don’t call it summer,
we don’t call it winter—
no, our seasons have their own names.
In the cold, rainy season,
we slid through the mud like children chasing freedom,
our feet slick with the earth’s laughter.
fnj
