Smothered in these hot days of summer with
the humidity and
heavy air and
bugs to rival Dante.
Fretful nights of kicking off sheets and
turning pillows, trying to find the cool spot.
"Maybe we should get AC," she says.
“I’ll just read a few more pages or
take a magic pill.”
My mind drifts back to shortened days with
their crispness and
lack of green so
you can see deep into the forests.
Cold you can taste on your skin.
Cold enough to freeze nose hairs.
The ground hard,
and slick enough to demand attention.
Wood the most pressing concern.
I think - which do I like best?
Or is it simply a case of wanting what I don’t have?
In summer, wanting winter.
In winter, wanting summer.
Wishes like these are only granted in memory,
or in a photograph.