Cold air hangs lighter than hot
Yet more ominous
Perhaps it presses down harder,
Like a wizened grandmother who
Has an iron grip on your shoulder-
A bantamweight that refuses to relax.
I feel aged when the cold forces
Layers of clothing
And refuses me the freedom
And innocence of near nudity
Of tank tops, bare feet
The air feels clearer
As do my perceptions
Which cut like wind
Straight to the core of my brain.
Perhaps I would wander a while,
But the cold leaves no idleness
This is worktime, wintertime, coldtime
There are no winter beaches
And while I never relaxed enough
To wrestle half-naked in lush grass
With some half-grown boy, the fact remains:
In summer, I might have.