Leave, winter, it’s fine.
You’ve done a number on
your descendants, the geese
taking turns to remind us
of their generational trauma.
We aren’t better equipped
to deal with spring’s narcissism
just because you bully and buffet
us through the streets.
Still, I’m trying to recall
the worst you’ve given me,
and I always returned home.
Turns out, the ones we don’t
see coming really throw us off.
October took my second son.
Dying is a grand spectacle,
and he followed fall’s lead.
Now there’s no pure season left.
My sister-in-law’s long goodbye
taught us all how to lose
in the grip of extended sun
and endless blue sky—
promises of youth rescinded.