quadrants

I think of my life in quadrants, geographic and temporal.

I was born in the summer and I grew up in summer, in the flat white heat of the south,

born in the season on the brink of decay. It smelled like honeysuckle,

like confederate jasmine and the ocean and a hint of rot.

I picked the leaves off of hibiscus, I pressed them between pages of books,

and I left.

I regressed, I suppose, I left summer for spring;

DC was all hints and promises and a new life.

The cherry trees came around like clockwork and I took my first breaths of fresh air.

I choked on it, eventually, I choked on the cherry trees,

and I left.

Autumn found me in Boston. Hot at first, I lived in a basement.

New England lays out October like an artist, brown and red and gold.

The air burned with leaf smoke and I ached for it,

it smelled like love, love and friends,

and I left.

Here it is winter, here it's the end time.

The city was frozen into grey and white, into ice and slush,

and it belonged to me.

It's melting back into summer, into decay,

but I have finished this cycle, I have done this all already,

and I don't know where to go.