Not
quite summer, the sky is not quite blue,
The flowers
not quite lush with mauve or red,
The
air still too cool, a degree or two
Below
perfection; he can go to bed
Comfortably
in the cool of the night,
But he
cannot sit outside with a beer
And
a good book in the sun; there is light,
But
insufficient warmth this time of year.
Even
a fire gives insufficient heat.
All
winter long he waits for spring and prays
For
warmer days to raise the dead, to greet
Tulips
of April mornings, yet June stays
Cool
this far north, and winds swoop from the plains,
And the darkening sky in the west brings rains.
And the darkening sky in the west brings rains.
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