Wind off the river is not gray
like the days it unpleasantly accompanies
in the months following Christmas,
but a liquid slap; it tries to land blows
before I can recover and defend my face
with hands slightly warm and sweaty
from being balled up in pockets
in an effort to keep warm.
The city where the winters are tolerable at worst,
without that silly breeze
off the mighty Mississippi,
is where I am when I wish I were on the equator--
being hot rather than even mildly cold.
I wouldn't miss it if
Memphis' late springs just stayed,
if the winters wandered politely off
to Des Moines or somewhere where
they would be better appreciated.
I like slowness, exemplified
by the laziness in a stretch on a warm day,
the gentle urge of the sun to
softly shine on your shoulders
when you ought really to be in class,
the unwillingness to move
when you're personally sweaty
but your clothing isn't yet.
The cold, demanding action for one to stay warm,
is most impolite.
It is never welcomed by anyone really genteel.
Rough, demanding zephyrs
rattling both bare branches and nerves
appear ill-bred.
The natural conclusion: they must be from out-of-state,
perhaps foreign to our customs--
a condition which is not so much forgiven
as understood.
Though the winds come here,
they are never really considered native.