I forget I am the only summer child
In my family, which explains my need
For heat and sun, and why I am
Mortified when clouds push their way
Over the brightness and my mood,
Why I hate autumn and winter
With a rage difficult for the the others
To live with.
Three months are far too few to live
A full year in, and my spirit is
Always running out of time in which
To do and to make and to think
And to be. There is a finiteness to
Each and every breath I take
Which frightens me.
In the garden, I stand in the shape
Of a crucifix to soak in as much
Light and warmth as I can.
R 20/09/2023 10:29