There comes a point in summer when I begin to wish for winter. When I tire of sweat and lukewarm showers.

There is a day when I’d like every tree in sight to stop covering their pain, and expose the reality of grey and withered limbs.

There is a night I wish for twelve blankets on my bed, only my nose exploring the freezing atmosphere.

There is a minute I wish to replace sandals with boots, and tanlines with skin like moonlight.

There is an hour I’d rather you and I hid away, with cold toes and frigid fingertips, than go to the lake and sip beer with plasticine friends.

There is a second I spend wishing for grey clouds to cover the mocking sun, for bitter gales to replace a dancing breeze.

There is a month, I wish the grass would hide its bragging leaves, and the snow would come out and play.

There are a few hours I spend pretending, I turn on every fan, dim the lights, put on pajamas, drink coffee, and cower beneath one solitary blanket. Hoping winter spies me, takes pity, and make the hours-minutes-days-months-seconds his.