i am content to be myself forever

somewhere in the hills of winter lies my heart

not frozen by the snow that carpets the ground

and tinsels the bare branches of the trees

rather melting for itself a perfect circle

in the white and winter world around

with a red, delicious glowing warmth

that coaxes the green from the winter grass

and gently pops the dandelions from sleeping seeds

not a false spring does my heart create

rather a spring of my own choosing

a spring i carry within myself

and can uncrate as easily as a weary hiker

can erect his tent

then roll up and dangle from his back

when the time comes to travel on

i am my own seasons

a spring of youth and love and growing

a summer of work and travel

a fall of quiet resting beneath browned trees

and a winter of revenge and bitterness

each season comes and goes at my command

without regard to sun and moon or

curious signs in farmer’s almanacs

often the order is reversed---and often

more than one is at a time

but they are mine

i am content to know them always

i am content to be myself forever

it was not always so

but the turning of the clock

and the rattling pages of my calendar

have worn the rough edges from my dissatisfaction

i no longer want an endless summer of work

or delight too long in hateful winter’s vengeance

i would be bored with constant springtime sex

and, though i am a lazy beast by nature,

fall’s resting is not my idea of heaven

i need all four---or five or more

as i explore myself

down through the halls of my mortality

i am content to whistle in the wind

and know that i alone can catch the tune

i am content to shed my cocoon never

i am content to be myself forever