Mosquitoes

I remember the pine needles and bug bites of summers spent ages ago.

I remember branches ripped from growing boughs and stripped of their leaves,

Now without the signs of their originality.

Nevertheless, the trees later blossomed,

But with flowers defected by bent brown petals.

Therein nature's disappointment lies,

Beaten and weathered by human hands.

My heart was a ball of cotton.

I stood out in the summer heat, wondering when they will let me in.