Spring cracks the sidewalk in Boston, a tulip pushing through concrete memory. In Georgia, pollen dusts the cars yellow, and everyone sneezes the name of the Lord. Texas sky opens wide as a hymn — bluebonnets spilling across the highway shoulder, while a tornado kisses the edge of a town, then leaves.
Summer arrives before the diploma dries. Florida beach sand burns the soles of children, waves hauling jellyfish like lost thoughts. Chicago takes a breath of lake breeze, but the subway breathes back, hot and iron. Arizona bakes stones into stories; Montana lifts its mountain spine into lightning. New York City melts — hot dog carts steaming, fire hydrants split open, kids dancing in the gasp. seasons in the usa
Autumn swings through New England like a lantern. Vermont maples burn orange, then drop their gold. A cider donut steams in a wooden barn. In Virginia, the leaves fall slowly, like letters unsent. Kansas watches combines crawl through amber waves, and football stadiums rumble under Friday night lights. Oregon rain begins its long confession. Spring cracks the sidewalk in Boston, a tulip
Winter pulls its hood low over the Dakotas. Buffalo digs out from lake effect — again. A Maine harbor freezes solid as a promise. In Denver, the sun lies bright, but the air lies colder. Miami still wears shorts, pretending. Alaska hands the dark to the moon for keeps. And somewhere in a diner off I-80, a waitress pours coffee black as December, saying, Honey, it’ll warm up by Tuesday. Summer arrives before the diploma dries
