Where No Living Thing Should Grow

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
                       ~Shakespeare

in blurred mirages rising from the desert floor
where no human should see herself reflected
seasons do not come and go
as they could not bear to follow her there
where no living thing should grow

autumn refused to pack up the leaves
who could blame her
when brown is the only color this land knows
it rolls in on nuclear clouds
choking our dry throats and hearts

nor could winter survive
year round summer rays attacking any snowflake
who dares attempt to hold tight to parched ground
he too chose to stay where powerful blusters can
not be weakened by mercury rising

spring, such an accommodating fair haired friend
rather than say no outright, she teases
with a few weeks of bloom and blue
only to rush home quickly to greener pastures
leaving little notice she once blossomed here

we brace ourselves and take cover
for the raging wrath of hellfire burst forth
summer nearly six months of the year
still beating us with its heat stick in October
trick-or-treating in shorts and bare shoulders

missing the seasons is more than a lack
of something from yesteryear
it is a soulless march of walking dead
over scorched earth seeking to wash away their sins
in color, leaves, rain, and snow

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