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
In the never-ending summer of mid-September,
an early morning cacophony of psychological torture.
An angry metal band of crickets with the volume cranked
bashing out the same repeated death notes.
Man and nature–inescapable in summer with pre-sunrise barking dogs
ceiling fans and condensers, lawn mowers, weed whackers, and motorcycles.
Even in the joy of late night lasting pool parties with screaming girls and top 40 jams,
I am forced to beg. Straight down on my knees, closed eyes, prayerful tears in the corners, for the cold dark silences of winter.
Winter cannot be called unassuming.
Let the mighty storm blow!
Once and for all, it shuts man up, leaving his lip all quivering.
It can muzzle his riotous machines with one snap of a storm–all is silenced,
but for the crunch of feet in snow or the fizz and pop of a sparkling amber fire.
Winter has no need to wake us early with daylight to seize.
Winter rolls its frosty blanket over us and we recover in sleep from harsh
sun burns with cashmere sweaters on the skin
from booming summer thunder with silent snowflakes
alighting on a strand of hair across the forehead
like little words falling from thick folds of gray clouds in a winter sky
where all the best poems are hidden
suspended in an arc of silence,
until they become full, and sprinkle
down to earth into a poem
waiting for sound to fade
This nostalgic poem is a celebration of spring and remembrance of good times spent growing up with my cousin in Tucson and riding our bikes in Sabino Canyon. What scents or places bring back memories like that for you? Any like poems? Any criticisms?
On Becoming in Sabino
It is a new season.
Though I was born in winter and grew
long legs in summer
orange blossoms spike the air.
It is all I can do to keep these black clothes
tied on and not hop on my bike and race to pick you up