Writing the Seasons

I write spring — not the sweet rain that nourishes all things. I write the seed-buying list, the football oval filling up, your drowsy eyes on the morning daylight saving ends — sports day circled in red, a reminder: don’t dawdle, catch up with time. I write summer — not lush woods and lotus ponds. I write scorched brown hills, roads shimmering with mirage, small hands clutching the popsicle,…