We sought the summer warmth
when winter’s unrelenting grip
left our whole world
a prison cell
and now
we seek reprieve
from the oppression
of Summer’s heavy hand.
We’re never happy,
are we?
Never finding pleasure
with the season,
because we ourselves
are out of place;
out of synch,
out of touch
with the world
and our place in it.
Never pleasured by the toil,
only basking,
sweet languishing
in moments
of congratulatory applause
for ineffective gestures.
Callous and cowardly, now
aren’t we?
Didn’t we used to seek danger out?
Didn’t we used to run the prey to the ground
and smash its skull with a rock
and split its skin
to feed the tribe
and never once
did we call ourselves
“Heroes”.
Nope,
just business as usual.
Cotton and down
have become a chain
and style a noose
about our freshly shaven chins.
You and I once spoke
of lands to conquer;
didn’t seem that long ago,
but now
we bleat for mercy
from a cold and indifferent master.
Heaven help us,
but we get weaker with each season
and the winter
is coming ’round again soon.
Did we stock enough
to make it though
the harshest in memory?
Have we strength left
to hunt
and make the kill?
Only the change of season
will tell.
HG – 2017
