Just what about the winter will I love?
A morning’s thought reveals not one damn thing
among the season’s blights worth thinking of,
unless it is the constant wish for spring.
What about the summers of the past,
when thoughts of frigid winter brought relief,
if only knowing summer wouldn’t last
beyond the season’s sweaty leitmotif?
But here we are, we’re not yet out of fall
and temperatures are dipping every day;
the wind will soon be like a polar squall,
the local lake an ice-bound arctic bay.
The winter is too cold, the summer hot;
I dread them both for what they both are not.