when it was mid summer and relentless
sun filled every corner, the slow afternoons
ablaze with heat-induced lethargy,
my mother yearned for the feel
of a thick warm sweater and cold mornings,
coffee by the fireplace, feet clad in wool.
when it was dead of winter, barren and brittle
with a fretwork of low shadows on the snow
she could only shiver and talk of summer’s glory.
in the dry season, where was the rain?
when it poured, would it ever stop?
and the discontented hours grew to years.
no wonder I was afraid when she was happy,
strangely at ease when all hell broke loose
and never quite content in the moment.