We tend to forget the unique traits
Of each season,
As it passes into the next.
We remember December as cold,
August as hot,
And April always seemed to be
spoiled by rain.
But we get alienated from the
Grammar of our inner workings,
As the hours alter temperature and color.
And each year sketches of the past,
Are in full bloom again.
Occurrences become sensations once more,
As we encounter how things felt:
The sunburned skin, that
remains feverish after dark.
Our hate for mosquitos awakening
And how once recognized the bats dancing
with shadows under the streetlamps,
Can’t be unseen.
Summer was always the barbaric midst
Among the finer nuanced days
Of autumn and spring,
But in hindsight never has been reluctant
With decent moments of happiness.