An Incomplete Season

I came from a place

of far off spring-times,

of never-quite-relenting winters

and summer mirage waves

that cooked up off the roofs

of houses in a derelict cul-de-sac.

 

Not a place for high fantasy.

Not a place for star-crossed lovers.

Maybe a six-pack and a Saturday night,

domestic quarrel with the neighbors,

nerves frayed thin

as winters fingers hang on

and stretch that last one

out.

 

This isn’t something you can take a break from.

This kind of life

is hardwired

and final as a death sentence.

The cold wind blows

and more snow falls,

only to be half melted in the daylight sun,

then frozen into ice

that makes walking treacherous.

 

And the days

are just getting a little longer,

but I know I will miss the night.

Friends tell me of places

where it is never winter

and I think they’re weak.

Co-conspirators

with the Global Warming crowd.

 

In this slushy-grey in-between world,

my mistrust of the outside is made complete

by proclamations of spring

and pictures of flowers blossoming

in my cousin’s garden in Victoria.

 

Sure, I could leave;

lead us out of this transition

and into the next season of life,

but I am old hat

when it comes to clinging to my discomforts

and my disappointments,

and it will be another month or so,

before I am willing to let go.

 

I have been shaped by this place;

so it seems.

Fashioned by the incomplete;

completed by the half-light

of another season to come.

 

HG – 2017

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