Waiting for Summer

We are waiting for summer.
The old man who lives above me said today,
“It’s still cold.”
This resentful truth, this
much is true.

The old are peeved at the seasons.
You cannot have a funeral
when it is windy.
Gusts mock the looming weightiness of the world
clothes dance merrily, trees bop.

We should die in the snow
in the clean and sombre white
or hope for cremation
instead.