As much as I love winter weather, chill
in summer seldom suits my mood. I look
outdoors and don my robe and wonder: will
I run the heat? Curl up and read a book?
But it’s July. The sun is up at six,
a dawning glare beyond the overcast.
I shiver through my exercise and fix
my eyes on poetry and break my fast.

By noon the shadows start to manifest;
they sharpen as the air takes on a blush
of yellow. First I’m like a cat: sun-blest
ecstatic comfortable, but then a rush
of vigor takes me. Soon I cannot sit.
I’m solar-powered now I’m old and fit.

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry, Weather. Bookmark the permalink.

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