I was not winter ready
but weary and worn,
sights set meant to carry
this heavy burden
that I have born,
the season slowly
finds its demise,
and green things
find their roots
and start to rise.

Spring is on its
mating high,
buzzing with
all that nature loving.
Until the heat becomes
too much
and pulsing passions
push to pains
of heated lust.

Summer strikes
quicker then
a ninja’s throwing star
or some other
adolescent fantasy metaphor,
aggressive expansion
of heated frustrations
scolding the core
of the southern
parts of our nations.
Till the lights recede.

Then I fall
like orange
autumnal leaves
coming back
so close
to those bitter cold
beginnings,
sleeves extend
with their own
warming intent
and sweat stains
no longer plague
my once
wet and darkened pits.

Then the frosty fear
returns here
and
I must write
a new winter poem.