Ice

late July
the monsoon season well underway
thunder and rain

and what I miss is
the icy air
the long slow shiver of the brown leaves
as they fall on the edge of a chill October wind

the heft of the rimed pumpkin
and clouds too thin to hold still
for the sun

I am hungry for the scent of winter
for the crystals that cling to the breath

for slicing ice under skate blades
the sharp burn of a shovel on a snow-swept street

for a stark world yearning for spring