In the spring I dream
of a breeze wafting
with the scent
of chives and rain

In the summer I dream
of a storm weighing down
the trees with airs
of mystery and murder

In the fall I dream
of letters, hidden by a lover
under a rock wall made
of moss and dirt

In the winter I dream
of apocalypse, subsuming everything
but the roaches, chewing morsels
of feces and ash