Cheryl Townsend
IT'S HARD
to think of winter
when the heat bears down
like unwanted advances
on every inch of flesh
Hard to remember the
brittle puddles and
opalescent illumination
that fluffs cottony on
your yard at night The
nights with need of
human warmth so
shunned in sweaty
summer air Ice tea
replaces hot chocolate
and so much more is
traded for the season
And as I write this poem
I hear the squeal of his
hot tires leaving my drive
way once again
