There’s a certain sadness that comes with the heat,
When even a breeze flushes your skin
And dampens your brow.
But there’s a bitterness in the cold,
When the sleet stings your scalp,
And your fingers go brittle with the ice.
So when the earth turns to mud,
Rich with sweet September rain;
When the lakes turn shiny and amber,
I can finally revel in all these seasonal amenities,
In my annual holiday of sleep and hugs
And spice and musk.
How there’s some sort of horoscopy falling from the sky
And the leaves,
Precious little snowflakes, you are mystery, augury.
Try to ignore how I’ll soon have to wake
To the impending perineal ennui,
That chews away at my temper every other time of year.