If it is boiling hot in March
then it is not truly Summer.
Been thinking about the temps
and peaks and sweltering and
baking and cooking that us
doughy flesh balls live through
and thinking about the ramifications
of hotter and hotter Springs.
I need my Winters,
my late Autumns,
where the wind bites your knees
and the cold freezes toes,
fingers and ears. My happiest
clime, clement and fresh,
where radiated body meets
bitter atmosphere,
the two a complement to
comfy continuance.