Am I a Summer's Day

Am I a Summer’s Day? By Sy Roth Do I compare myself to a summer’s day? I think not, Winter’s chill perhaps, Cold rivulets of icy waters Coursing down a crenelated brow Perhaps. A dirge, A threnody A morose psalm to an ancient soul A toddler’s wobbly steps taken down a bumpy road, Rocks kicked up along dusky, chilled ancient iters, Toted memories borne in metal hods Black rimed with coal dust To ward off wintry chills. Humped to the lean-tos Quickly, in the hurried winds of time, Detritus carried along in waves of my own confusion. And the summer’s day an illusion of Tripping down bare-tree lanes. I am the winter of my own discontent.