The Winter Keeps Me Company

Gillian Sneve

Spring is a sun-kissed woman

With a round belly and sunburnt cheeks

Who sits on upon my window pane

And with orange juice stains across her feather-light blouse she sings to me:

“Without upkeep both people and houses alike will come to poison you.”

And she is gone like yellow chalk in rain.

Summer is a drunk man

With flowers in his beard and “Gone Fishing” tacked into his forehead

Who accidentally broke into my home believing it to be his

And snores on my golden honeysuckle couch

And with bourbon on his breath he calls out:

“Damn, termites eatin’ at my brain again.”

And then disappears in a single night like fireflies.

Autumn is a freckled boy

With a runny nose and scraped up knees,

Who timidly knocks on my mahogany door,

And insists on taking a bath until the water runs cold,

And with a medley of lemon drops and apple cider in his mouth he says:

“Miss, it’s getting nippy out, may I have a scarf?”

Then one night sneaks off with it wrapped around his neck like a snug snake.

Winter is a thin woman

With grey skin and pale eyes,

Who is scared to come into my home,

But rather seeps in through the floorboards,

And with a tongue-laced with sugar and peppermint,

She says nothing,

And refuses to leave.