A poem about this ridiculous cold non-summer weather going along to accompany a drumbeat...
In cold November's grasp, we shiver and freeze,
Dreaming of summer, with its warm, gentle breeze.
The days may be shorter, the nights cold and long,
Yet in our minds, the echoes of summer songs.
"Is it summer yet?" we mutter and yearn,
For the sun on our skin, a seasonal return.
But the frost on our windows whispers a chill,
As if mocking our hopes, with a wintry thrill.
In the icy silence, our spirits take a seat,
Yearning for warmth, and some seasonal heat.
As the snow piles up, and the daylight retreats,
My only suggestion is a cool drumbeat.
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18 ноя 2023
