in the spring she will bloom again

The blue sky has conceded to cold grey arches. There is little tending to the grieving dark or dead leaves fallen detached by laws of seasons thrust  from the past into the present. Having lost the sun her destiny is the hard earth. What remains is a treasure of clay and a potters wheel behind a sleeping black widow spider.She breathes warm breath on to her frozen  fingers until  once again she is malleable  bent and shaped into her own likeness.