I NEVER CLUTCHED AN ICEBERG
The hands that hold April and May
have grown weary of waiting. It
seems it's all too chilly. These days
even the calendars lie. Or belie the
truth anyway, if that's the same thing.
I'm tired of waiting for warmth, and
now despair of any more cold.
-
Perhaps I'm now weak, grown too
old for any of this. Sleet and snow
and frost do tire me. I long for sun
to come perspire me? (That sounds
wrong, but it's right for me).
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