This was suppose to be a day of rain
with snow in the late afternoon
Outside
I set my nose to play
searching among the simple changes
that announce a gradual turn
I want the season ahead to be
No flowers yet
Leafless trees fret in embarrassment
their brown leaves top the grass
in a sick frosting
Vicious clouds allow the sun
to torture me with sorrowful peeks
That yellow ball for a child
to play with
my skin still hidden beneath
layers stitched together
with sober zippers
In the southern hemisphere
they turn to winter
as we turn away from it
If only a person could have
a year of summer just once in life
something the rich enjoy
whenever they want it
but the plain of white
that now stretches before me
makes its demands
as I've lost a decent
fit for galoshes
Barry G. Wick
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