I’d ask you to take a breeze
with me and hold
it to the sunrise.

Instead—you’d wander
off in the night fog,
fully clothed,
to feel the nakedness
of sunken clouds.
​
We’d circle back
at the same winds—
but I knew
we wouldn’t last.
​
See, I’m the one
who’d pin a tree down
by its limbs
until it confessed
the day Spring
would return.
​
You preferred
creating foggy
groundhog days—
layering yourself
in scarves amidst
cherry blossoms
and perennial blooms—
convinced
that this Winter
wouldn’t end
anytime soon.

We’d both unclothe
ourselves into
the same Summer heat—
but I knew
we wouldn’t last.
​
I’d like to counter
the dry spells of
Summer by measuring
the offset
of sea levels—
then letting
our hearts perform
the ceremonial dances
to bring forth the rain
to bridge
the drought.

But, you insisted
on us crying the
difference.
​
As you continued
your course—
the night fog began
to court the
sea breezes.
​
We both departed,
layered in
sunken clouds,
fully clothed
in the nakedness
of Summer
droughts,
circling off
into our
different seasons.