I have often found greater satisfaction
With the hesitant promise of sunshine
of a cold February day,
than of the complacent June midsummers
anticipating its own decay

They say an end must come
To every good thing
And you see,
I don’t want to wait till summer’s end
to pine,
wistful, for spring.

Hopes swell more malignant
Under promise’s anticipatory doting
So I have chosen a gratification more faithful
When I tell myself
*“I shall be in want for nothing.”