Arid

Another Sunday dithered away, another month well on its way to oblivion, and the half-brown grass is still half brown, the chilled night still merely chilled. There's little more than a month left of winter, and no sign of winter is in sight but the bare branches of the trees, as bony as they've been for months.

So there might be a drizzle tomorrow, so what? The mountains are as bare of snow as the trees are of leaves. This evening the air smelled of pine, but all that did was remind me that summer is lurking out there, waiting to burst into flames. With no winter, how will there be a spring? We'll probably go from chill to swelter overnight, and then sweat until October. Do not want!


( Sunday Verse )