When I was Two and Twenty

It was a warm Winter.
Certainly there was frost, mesmerizing lace of snow.
Still, even northern streets held no forbidding chill.
Brisk movement, bracing meditative walks through
streetlamp shadows sufficiently
far from heavy deadliness of frigidity.
That Winter spanned manifold degrees,
latitudes and longitudes.
The coldest night hit with shock and
good hot anger.  Electrical resistance, exasperation;
existential flurries stomp revenge.
February proffers challenging amity.
Winter’s merge with Spring, icy mud, ire damp,
subsumed in vulgar pleas for relief.
April is cruel.  She is bossy, outrageously on the rag.
She seduces with promises, then laughs in your face,
carelessly spews spittle shames.
April is nobody’s mistress.
She demands notice; delivers only belligerence.
It was a warm Winter, a lusty Spring.  Summer’s
herald of mystery followed through.
By Fall the world took on
a stranger’s ways.  New data to consider.
Years have their stories.
Days awaken to the air’s news, the drums’ rhythm.
Warm Winters, Summers’ call of capricious glory;
twilights of harmonic symphonies when Sun
touches green horizons.

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