I try to capture summer in a poem
but I find
after trees
sun-
the warm breeze,
I'm left with the crying sirens,
the drunk screams and ravings
Sisters passing out,
2 am,
in the middle of the street
and concrete,
stone,
matchstick houses;
all so permanent through the seasons changes.
It's no wonder snow and sun,
rain and heat,
wind and stillness are fading from our senses,
protected as we are in this city
of climate controlled dens,
for the most part square and stolid.
