Unmoored

This cannot be
Heat of August, stifling and intoxicating
then this cold sunlight of February
only instead of barren bones
this landscape glows with new grown green
Days fought through have become weeks,
slipped through my fingers,
into months I see only in a glance
May is coming, a month of soft warmth
that descends into heat only as it closes
But how can this be?
The chill of this cold light is more familiar
than the heat of dark green grass
This cannot be. Seventeen cannot come to be
in only five more days.