Work Text:
A season of cold creeps up on the temperate South
the way that feral cats stalk the neighborhood mice:
slowly, and with an innocence that shivers away at eye contact.
Along about October, the sun-full days of summer and the
stickiness of early autumn
turn into lesser days, laced with winter’s sparkling threat, until
there’s only night, it seems.
November brings the last crumbling oak leaves trembling to the
crackled, dead grass
in our yellowed yards, and morning dew gives way to overnight frost
(no great chemical change, frozen water)
and December, a harshness tamed by frequent thaws and the
inherent mildness of a Southern winter.
Wet wintry mixes slick the streets of suburbia,
endangering small vehicles
but sometimes you still roll the windows down
with the radio turned up to carry
in the cold, skin-stabbing air.
Throughout January, we huddle inside on grey, slushy days,
wishing for the heavy heat of June to bake us out of our
post-holiday apathy; dying to be alive
again, if only this pale imitation sun
would fail to rise one morning,
making way for blue skies.