the tropics were languid
heat and humidity
induce brevity of motion...
Snow was a foreign concept,
its flakes and sheets, falling, a quiet patchwork of white
leaving midwestern streets dirty with slush,
A memory I would have thirty years in the future,
now five years in the past.
Seasons are all about waiting,
For first snows, rains, buds, heatwaves, chills and cool nights
burrowing beneath comforters, languid once more.