You are mistaken.
Winter can be blistering snowfall
against your tired bones
as much as it can be dead weight
inside your head.
You can be flushed pink with wine,
Sweating tiny pearls by the soot and fire
and still feel like you’re trudging
knee-deep in ice.
Infatuation bloomed in the spring,
Passion browned my flesh in the summer,
While I thought we’d stay golden in the fall,
The trees soon turned barren
as snow filled the prints you left in your wake.