It is a cloudless afternoon, during the season of azaleas and daffodils;
Wind is whooshing, as Jack Frost blows his last few breaths for the season.
A little boy lets go of a clean, transparent plastic bag into the air
Out of boredom, without any apparent reason or care.

The boy chaste and childlike,
Free to fly away, just like the plastic bag.
The plastic bag starts to dance away to the sound of Spring,
until the delicate dancer gets captured by the branch of a vicious tree.
The boy feels a sense of helplessness,
and is saddened by the fact that he lost a friend.

As I walk down the road for a morning coffee on a Saturday,
I pass by the same tree with a plastic bag on a branch.
The plastic bag is worn-out and ragged,
Damaged and bruised by time and harsh weather.

Split into many stretched-out pieces,
The plastic bag looks disheartened by his new form.

I cradle the worn and torn plastic bag in my hands, reminiscing the past,
trying to distinguish the faded writings that once shined brightly.
My hands calloused and worn, intertwined within the thin veil,
groping for the youth that had fluttered away