An old-school (for me) style poem.
Measuring
the preposterous melancholy
of a summer simmering
against the silent ticking
of a doomsday egg timer.
a winter's born too
of the same meandering air--
wears the same clothes
at the end of its stay,
the comfortable garb
of a guest too long lived
and now one with the wallpaper.
temperature, a moot detail--
(hair color, shoe size, favorite food)
boiled down (the simmer lost),
or frozen, all seasons
adhere to the same shape
in memories--
a life measured out
in ice cube trays,
and a fear of overflowing.
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