I miss the birdcalls.
Now through my window flashing seeps
The siren-gusts hurtling around my apartment building.
I miss green leaves.

Through the curtains,
The metallic sky stares at me
From the other side of the tracks.
When I step outside,  
It freezer-burns my nose in two minutes.

I scurry to my destination
And try to forget the trip,
Except for one stringy green grass clump.

I was a fall-born initiate
To the season’s slow roll—
My first months swaddled against the snow.
The breath of flowers in early April
Must have rocked my world.
Then came the sun’s heat
Through the window by my car seat,
The sedative of naptime.
Late summer must have been
A melting spoon of ice cream.
“You made it. Here’s to another year.”

The cold-hearted wind still slaps me
When I open the front door.
Every year I earn my right
To the patch of summer sun on my carpet.
And I wait for the flowers’ whisper to come:
“You made it. Here’s to the warmth of beginning.”