I am like a tree.
Spring: my moss-stained branches sprouted emerald leaves and fresh, fluttering petals.
Summer: my sweet aroma drifts into the atomosphere and I sway blissfully in the sunlight.
Autumn: my golden-baked foliage will shrivel up and whip away in crispy furls.
Winter: my naked body will wither and tremble as gnarly twigs snap off and leave me to decay.
My childhood has been snagged in the stealthy switch of a season.
So now I sit Summer, then Autumn, then