January
@@ -32,15 +33,16 @@January.
It’s cold, and I don’t like it.
I prefer warm weather,
although I like sweaters. They are the one
warm spot in an otherwise shitty season.
But fall is better sweater weather. So be patient,
patient,
while waiting for the end of January.
A change of season
brings a change of mood along with it,
although I never thought I’d be one
to believe that SAD junk about effects of weather—
weather!—
on a person. Who becomes a patient
just because of one
month of snow? I did say of January:
“It’s cold, and I don’t like it,”
but I hardly think it’s fair, knocking whole seasons,
seasoning
your conversation with demands for better weather.
(While I find it
nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient
while waiting for the end of January.)
Oh, but how the long nights do so tax one!
One
warm spot in an otherwise shitty season—
all I ask, January,
is one warm day. Do you care whether
I’m a person who becomes a patient
in some psych ward? This just about does it.
I.T.,
although I never thought I’d call one,
is fair and patient
when I call. They talk with me, season
my conversation of demands for better weather
with an argument for the white beauty of January.
They know it’s hard; they say each season
has its detractors. One day, they say, the weather
will be controlled—until then, patience in January.
January.
It’s cold, and I don’t like it.
I prefer warm weather,
although I like sweaters. They are the one
warm spot in an otherwise shitty season.
But fall is better sweater weather. So be patient,
patient,
while waiting for the end of January.
A change of season
brings a change of mood along with it,
although I never thought I’d be one
to believe that SAD junk about effects of weather—
weather!—
on a person. Who becomes a patient
just because of one
month of snow? I did say of January:
“It’s cold, and I don’t like it,”
but I hardly think it’s fair, knocking whole seasons,
seasoning
your conversation with demands for better weather.
(While I find it
nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient
while waiting for the end of January.)
Oh, but how the long nights do so tax one!
One
warm spot in an otherwise shitty season—
all I ask, January,
is one warm day. Do you care whether
I’m a person who becomes a patient
in some psych ward? This just about does it.
I.T.,
although I never thought I’d call one,
is fair and patient
when I call. They talk with me, season
my conversation of demands for better weather
with an argument for the white beauty of January.
They know it’s hard; they say each season
has its detractors. One day, they say, the weather
will be controlled—until then, patience in January.