Season of the Senses’ Treason

It should be when you dream of snow,
The numbing at your neck at night,
You wake to a window pouring glow,
A whalebone spread of frigid light.

So what’s this waking up to weight,
To cracking tree limbs, smothered grass,
To light deranged and opiate
From ice reflecting its trespass.

It should be when your nose constricts
And alternates from itch to drip,
Your neighbors bow, slip on their masks
And mutter darkly of la grippe.

So why is it their sympathies
Rub off and leave you stuffed the more?
They trust it’s just the hay on breeze,
Assume no germs assail their door.

Possessed, the year’s remote control
Rewinds and cues yet on it plays,
Yet on sidereal time insists
On stubborn lengthening of days.

It should be be with the offspring’s growth
The limbs turn martyr to the cold;
Bless us these fairy days of health
In strange loop time of coming old.

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