The Off Season

We breathe fresh air in the off season, continually reminding one another that there are only three months left... No wait, two months and twenty-nine days... No wait, one week. Needless to say time passes faster and slower depending on what kind of interval we want to lose ourselves in. We're smudges on glass sometimes, or corrupt structures dedicated to rapists and bored sociopaths. Our sacred cows have lost interest in grazing, and so they quickly pack their bags and head off in another, much more structured directions.
These big city lights are like the bloodshot eyeballs they keep awake. Sometimes the lids drift back down across the frame, but sooner than later spark back up again as if there is no rest or relaxation, here, there or anywhere. Nevertheless, we all grow use to the long lines in front of the cabins. We sense and share the same pain as the wood that is meticulously glued together. The toothpicks between our teeth, scream indifference, and are flipped back and forth, up and down, side to side, ten times more alive than the reminders of the way things once were, before our souls lost their way.
We know the direction of things to come, though, as if all their predictions were as solid as the roots, that occasionally dry up, but nevertheless stand tall in the off season. We love to love in the off season, and don't mind the dirt in-between our fingernails. Its presence underneath the white means we're growing just like the crops that are chopped down and replanted. We extend our hands like the leaves and stocks. We buy and sell our fingers, communicating through movements and resonating sounds from the ground up.
Those that are listening don't necessarily pay all that much attention to us, as sooner than later, once the dust settles, they come to the realization that they are exactly like us, and soon are patiently awaiting for their own vacation away from the gravel. They want to swim around in our overflowing pool of thought. They want to be pragmatic flowers, resting easy in vases and sometimes withering when it's time to go back to work.
Oh, but the off season. The wonderful off season. It whispers to us, passionate secrets that we all need to hear. Shh... Don't tell anybody, but I think I may have found a way out of here.