The sun was a lover's heart: fiery, ardent, trapped in its own heat. Its rays touched my cheek but softly -- with only a timid kiss. The insistent wind was too much for anything, too much for life. My bones filled up with a chill that weighed me down, and my spirit ached for the days of summer. Perhaps we don't choose the course of the seasons; perhaps all are subject to bitterness hiding the sweet. If only life were a thing made to order, poems such as this would never exist.