The sun was a lover's heart:
fiery, ardent, trapped in its own heat.
Its rays touched my cheek but softly --
with only a timid kiss.
The insistent wind was too much for anything,
too much for life.
My bones filled up with a chill that weighed me down,
and my spirit ached for the days of summer.
Perhaps we don't choose the course of the seasons;
perhaps all are subject to bitterness hiding the sweet.
If only life were a thing made to order,
poems such as this would never exist.
