Out My Window
The ice huts have appeared
looking like the tops of ships sticking
out of the lake ice, proof of a sudden catastrophe.
The sun looks a lot warmer than it is.
Summer seems like a dreamland
a million miles off.
In July we will miss the refreshing cold
as we swat mosquitoes and check
our tan has not turned to lobster red.
In Fall, the leaves turn our eyes inside out,
our neighbours burn them and
in our new smokehouse home
we slam our windows shut.
In Spring, we watch the dog tramp in mud
stare back at the rain steel sky.
Settling for a season does not slip easily
over our ears and nose.
Weather complaints must be guaranteed in the Constitution.
Our common right.