A fly on the lip of the glass,
A drink that the room has turned cold;
There’s some contradiction in this.
This season indoors breaks the mold.
You take an intoxicant sip
Of brew grown belatedly strong.
You let the nip soothe your cold throat
And find your voice, but not for long.
The drunken fly’s small life expires.
The flush in your skin will not last.
You sing about seasonal fires
And stay inside, dreaming the past.
The summer to come is far off;
The previous one, just a blur.
Your song terminates in a cough,
And you feel worse off than you were.
You know no other moment will provide
Relief that – though you can’t reach it – you crave.
It’s more than a dark lull in the year’s ride.
This quick flash of the wings is all we have.
-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey
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