I started writing today
about supposed impermanence
evidenced by frost noon-deleted
and as I was dithering
in three weeks of January gray
convincing myself this too was fleeting
my memory shifted
to another segment of reality
when I began
this very same poem
twice removed
three months ago.

from season to season
is necessarily trite
especially as here am I,
yearning for spring
because spring turns to summer
and summer to fall
and in fall I can dream about summer
while in reality it has become winter.

Because if summer slipped by on a river,
and September disappeared in a fog puff
October plodded along
each day delineated by
asphalt lanes and concrete steps
instead of blue-green waves and endless rocks.

Dreaming of October
seems a foreign concept
viewed here from my winter perch
of toes frozen and fingers brittle

and I remember I won’t truly be warm
until June
and even then
holds the threat
of a freak snowstorm
rolling into July. 



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