We are sun-baked in the sand, hand
in gritty hand, when you ask me,
“What’s your favorite season?”
Expect me to say—Here.
Now. No moment could be better
than this secret summer, with you
my lover. (It took us nine hours
to drive here). Instead, I speak
truth: “It’s winter.” Tell you,
“It’s not this postcard picture
I crave.” I don’t trust heat
that makes sleep uneasy, or words
spoken beneath Florida’s
delirious skies. What we need
is north of here. A season to chill
the bones, to make breath
visible. A time
when promises take shape
in the form of steam.
Photo Credit: Thomas James Caldwell Flickr via Compfight cc
