My teacher once told me

he was 'in the winter of life'.

And how beautifully tragic it seemed at first

that we are all seasons.

That each new experience in my life
could reflect nature’s beginnings (and ends).
But in my spring, becoming summer,
I think back to your mock-humorous confession.

Do you long for sprouting flowers?
Do you wish for light showers
of rain to wash away feelings and thoughts?
Do you reminisce of sun shining through
hallways you never thought you’d miss?

And most selfishly I question

whether my winter will be as harsh

as you joke your own to be.

Will there be snow or slick ice,

from which I can’t stand?

Will there be harsh winter avalanches of electric bills

burying me in my own apartment?

Will there be a fire to keep me

warm when the winter wind is howling

and my family lives in a different state?
Will my fellow seasons

begin to forget me as they become  

their own?

After a year of the rain, the snow,
and the in-between sleet,
the same teacher told me,
“I am in the winter of life
and you the spring. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Learn to simply be.”

Of all the assignments he gave me,
and instructions to "mind my excessive comma usage",
this I will head to, and keep close
when the summer sun starts to set.
Because I cannot relish sunkissed skin,
or breeze through my hair,
while sitting inside
dreading the cold.