A Corona is not your summer.
Not your bathing suit.
Not your pool.
The lager does not define the day.
The laidback vibe on an ocean shore
Whispering a rhythmic “hush”
As the waves pound against the sand.
That’s my summer.
The whiskey is not your winter.
Not your coat.
Not your shovel.
The spirit does not predict the climate.
The sting of the snow blown into your face
Leaving behind a tightened flesh
Red and rosy standing out amidst a whiteout.
That’s my winter.
My winter waistline does not cry for the summer
But for the sweet breath of my long lost wave.
My summer bronze does not seek to be covered by a parka
But for the warm blanket and the fire on a frigid January evening.
Moments defined by memories.