Summer Blues

Friction – Chapter Nine.

Time doesn’t move.
July is September,
August rules November.
Warmth is gone.
Leading a heavy gloom.
Unfading SAD
guiding a dusty parade.

You are complaining.
While I am suffocating.

Birds are leaving
They have their cue leading
Une fausse alarme.Frogs are unsettled
Their skin feels the mist.
That cannot be said for their offspring.

The rain is persistent,
restless,
misguided.
All you see is grey.
All I notice is sorrow.
Ice is baking for tomorrow
Warmth feels fresh,
enveloping the flesh.

I am sighing.
You are adapting.

Aznavour is wrong:
The misery is worse
when you are burning.

I am weeping.
You are trying.

This is a mistake.
Something is off.
All is wrong.
This is not orange time,
or chocolat chaud
delight.

Nature is roaring.
Why must summer
be solstice-yellow,
when it can wear Autumn’s colours?

A lady can be a lad,
and an X can lose a dash.
Why Christmas trees
when they can becomeBleeding Heart flowers.

I am lost.

You begin.

I am damaged.

You are healing.

Rules are made.
Laws are mitigated.
Except
What is a rule?
A nature or a due?

Mère Naturewants to take part
And be the father figure.
You can’t ignore her.
She will be our doom.

I am devastated.
You are fighting.

You will be gone.
I will be gone, too.

Mother Nature won’t ruin us
with tsunamis
or hurricanes.

We will decline
by depression—
by an endless summer
that feels like September.