It is the heat of the summer sun that loosens and melts away
The glue holding you in place--
--and this, perhaps, is why you avoid it
So religiously.
It is the wind of the cheap little desk fan that blows
The dandelion you wished on to root in terra incognita--
--and this, perhaps, is why every year you put off plugging it in
For so long.
South to north to south again,
Choice and circumstance volley you back and forth
In this bastardised seasonal migration,
And at this point all you can hope for is to outrun the fires--
--a phoenix can only rise from so many ashes.
The breeze of your motion is the only thing
Making this trusty little SUV habitable,
But you can't help longing for
A summer at rest.