This time of year
When the snow falls
And the wind turns cheeks rosy
And noses numb
I always miss the summer.
I miss how the sun
Bakes the scent of grass into the air
And makes my skin slick with sweat
When I run in the dawn and twilight.
I miss watermelon and ice cream,
Fresh cucumbers and bunches of mint.
I miss seeing the sky turn purple and
Stars appear in the east
And feeling like enough still remained
In the day for anything to happen.
But in those days when the air suffocates
And the bedsheets strangle
And cool showers are the only balm of the day,
I find myself missing winter
With its snowglobe flurries
And food—baked goods, soup—
That warm body and soul.
I miss enjoying those summertime bunches of mint
As warm mugs of tea
And snuggling under blankets to watch trash TV.
There’s a sort of laziness demanded of winter
That there’s simply no time for in summer—
A season of rest after a season of work.
The grass is always greener on the other side,
Whether that other side is of the fence or the year,
But I don’t think this means we are meant
To be perennially dissatisfied;
Perhaps instead we can only appreciate
What we have in front of us
In our memories while surrounded
By its opposite.