Strawberry lemonade.

Knocking on the doors of dusk,

This winter clings to my bones like

Trees that choke on cigarettes and musk.

The air has turned a cerulean grey

And on the roofs, the white ash caves.

Why do I so desperately crave

An iced glass of lemonade?

When winter’s breath

So cold, so dry,

Turns each whisper to frosted sighs

Within me, a desperate ache

For the citrus, the salt, the lemonade.

Like Hypnos, I dream of a sunkissed haze

Skies of sugared peaches and lazy days

But I stand pathetically in Winter’s claws,

The air so crisp, so numb, so flawed.

How strange it feels, in icy cold that

It’s the thick of winter yet I call to May,

Sweet and sour 

at gloom’s final hour,

As I crave so deeply

a glass of strawberry lemonade.