Growing up
the tropics were languidheat 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.
E, 2009
5 comments:
Nice.
That was really good,e, thank you for reviving it. You've lived in interesting places.
Beautiful.
That sums our yearly cycle.
This is such a lovely poem, thank you so much for sharing it.
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