Sometime in mid-winter,

When the snow is grimy and deflated

Tired, clinging halfheartedly to frigid mud

And the light is sharp, glaring and angled

Devoid of warmth, unsympathetic to the eye

Subtle longing begins

Images of wading, hip-deep

Through green-gold fields that swish and shimmer

Affronted grasshoppers, startled leaps on papery wings

Sun-gilded leaves, and murmuring cottonwood

Painting dappled shadows on moss

Summer dust and withering heat forgotten

Disremembered in favor of honey bees

And tomato-scented lushness of foliage

Wistful December reverie

Seasonal envy, idealized pastoral dream


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