Days of rain,
Of ashen light,
Of dull skies
And icy wind -
They to me
Are dear the most,
The most cherished, joyous, sweet.
Days of gloom and I are blood,
Bound by my childhood land,
Tied by memories so happy
They have left a constant brand.
Days of grey are fleeting ease -
From the time of scorching sun,
From the time of blinding shine,
From the taunting drops of sweat
Trickling down my breasts and spine.
Days of cold to me are haven -
Burning candles on the table,
Boiling soup, hot tea with lemon,
Books and movies under covers,
Long, slow nights with the man I'm in love with…
Days of cold are my own heaven.
Comments about this poem (Between summers by Anna Kirshenbaum )
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