The point of seasons is when
the wheel turns to spring,
and we live through one of those days, you know,
when it’s crisp as a braeburn apple in the morning,
and then the sun rises in the East,
and we come to know its warmth, kneading us piece by piece,
massaging the shoulders, and the neck, and the soul,
and as we walk down to work, each in our own way,
we ask that rhetorical question,
with no envelope, and no postmark,
“Really – for me?”