The cold hits you in the face as you open the door.
Unexpected. Unseasonable. Unwanted here
in the calendar season of Summer.
Seasons, it seems, are more about expectations
than reality. They are less a promise
than a postcard from the beach.
You have lived heat in winter,
and now, cold in the early days of September,
aging less by years
than by some ping-pong of fate and emotion.
About this poem
Sometimes I feel young. Other times I know I am far too old for this body I live in. Age, I have learned, has less to do with time than heart.
And that is good and bad.