seasonless

seasons in new york change in a day.

there is no snow gathered in mounds

following my front walkway ,

leading me from the street to my home,

ushering me from the door to the fire.

there is no snow to indicate the passing of time

from christmas to easter,

from january to march,

from winter to spring.

there is no snow to remind us that we live in

days and seasons;

we live in time.

with the absence of the elements stretching from

one day to the next,

indicating continuity,

our days are isolated.

rhythm becomes the beat of the trains

and the horns of the cars,

but we do not understand that life passes

in seasons and in time.

that one day i will grow old like my mother is growing old

like my grandmother grew old.

that one day i will bury my lover in the field where we first lay

in springtime when our love was new.

I will lay him down again in spring, to mark the fullness of life

in the fullness of a year,

in the fullness of a season.

and one day, i will be buried underneath the field where i first conceived

a thought that i could love.

i do not know it yet.

there is no field here for me to go fresh and sweet to be undone.

there is no mark of death in this place.

only the steady pulse of the same age

for ages.

there is no labor to tell me that i must work for the food i eat.

only the steady pulse of tired hands and hearts.

and spring came in a day.

and will leave in a day.

and there is no more thought of winter,

there is no more snow to remind us what was,

and what will be.