They do not change like the seasons.
My mother is the height of summer...

This city looks different in the cover of night
No longer crowded with shoving strangers...

I went into the bookstore today.
You know the one...

I am not a poet.
No linguist, nor painter of the written word...

2am in the back of the car
Windows down, we’ve not made it very far...

Unsteady room and a fuzzy brain
I drink it down to ease the pain...