The dry brush crackles,
wilts feverish, awaiting
those tresses of flame.
Blood-warm Gulf waters
spin out clouds, frenzied by the
sun’s languid embrace.
Storm clouds form a wall;
a skein of lightning cracks bright
and makes it tumble.
Summer shade, trembling,
watching for her father’s car—
film-inspired kiss.
Dog days of summer
that growl and sink white fangs deep
into November.
A northern storm of
white hair and Bermuda shorts:
winter has arrived.
The temperature dips
to a cozy sixty-five.
Old men sigh, content.
Twenty-eight degrees—
farmers coat their trees with ice;
school is cancelled quick.
Dew clings tenacious
to the windshield, shrugging off
insistent wipers.
The mall parking lot,
replete with Mexican plates:
it’s finally spring.
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