I hate the smell of spring time:
raindrops and freshly cut grass
make for dull companions.
I would much rather stay inside,
curled up with my favorite
I hate swimming in the summer:
all the rolling laughter and joyful waves.
Itchy wool hats with side flaps
make for a more enjoyable passage of time.
I would rather roll around in the snow:
dark and coarse and melting.
I hate the sound of crunching leaves
and vibrant colors across hillsides
that sing the songs of the seasons.
I would rather be embraced
by silence that suffocates
all thought, along with coarse cynicism.
I hate the taste of hot cocoa
in the dismal season of cold
nights and caroling and ice sculptures.
I would rather sit in the
scorching sun and whither into
the empty shell of an airborne cicada.
I hate the changing seasons
like I hate the passage of time:
dragging on like immovable morals.
I would rather time fly by instead,
never allowing me to take in
the dank surroundings of my own seasons.
Life moves forward.
Or move over.
Edited by Amy Owings