I: Cold Comfort

Part I of Saisons du Coeur

for Grace

Latitude and altitude conspire in this place.
Hearts slow down to yearning, turning back
To things lost, misspent, or imagined.
So, in arrowed groups, griefs, with geese, arrive
And settle in to feed on what remains here:
More, by far, than what is left to frigid empty North.

My Summer ended too, too suddenly,
And the dichotomy of seasons took me somewhat by surprise.
It turned what I had hoped to harvest into fodder.

Time, now, to ferment what I had stored against the ruin;
Time to rest and ruminate, prepare and plan;
To keep from rage or guttering the tongue that warms the still.

The heat and humidity continue to creep up, but shelter is still advisable, even when it’s warmer than in the open sunlight. So why not