Alessandra Foster (A.) and Mary Cox (M.)

A. 
Other than a few halcyon days, 
other than the fragrant flowers
and blossoming trees,
other than being able to drive later
without blinding headlights,
I don’t much care for Spring and Summer.

I don’t like
insects, birds, heat, 
long hours of daylight, 
dead or injured baby wildlife,
motorcycles, scooters, extra traffic,
extra people, unleashed dogs.

I don’t like
fireworks, fairs, festivals, 	
barbecues, picnics, wearing less clothing,
air conditioning, torrential rain, lightning,
all the much-needed road work.
Is this enough?

M.
I love Spring and Summer.
I love the long days. And being able to wear less.
I love the returning green on the trees 
and all the flowers blooming.  
I love watching the pollinators in our garden.
I love watching the monarch caterpillars
turn into butterflies.

I don’t like the increased noise. Or fireworks. 
I don’t go to fairs, festivals, or barbecues. 
I’m not a fan of AC either, but I prefer it to heat.
My favorite days are when I can open the house.
I love the smell of fresh air.

I am much more active in Spring and Summer,
even enjoyed two weeks of power-washing.  
And I’m fortunate in my ever-helpful husband.

I prefer who I am in Spring and Summer.
And I get to see the kids more often then.
I love the birds who visit my many feeders
and I marvel at the variety of insects.
We also enjoy and feed our groundhog visitors.

A. 
You make an eloquent case
for Summer’s reasons
but I still prefer the polar seasons.

M.
I hate the long dark cold days of Fall and Winter. 
I hate when Fall decorations appear in stores.
Their smell makes my sinuses constrict.
I hate that the days are getting noticeably shorter.
I don’t even like the way the shadows fall in Fall.
I can feel already the onset of grief and dread
of the long cold dark days ahead. 

To me, Fall is a season of dying; that’s what I see,
a season of dying that leads to a season of death.
I go into a holding pattern, a kind of hibernation,
when the days turn cold and dark.

I come alive again when the buds return, 
the days are longer, 
and the flowers begin to bloom.

A. 
I love the crisp freshness of Fall,
its lovely colors and assembling geese, 
its promised relief from insects, heat,
and too bright sun.
As long as there’s no ice, 
and I don’t have to drive,
Winter is also nice: 
bare black trees, stark landscapes, 
no proliferation of birth and growth,
no lush confusion, everything discrete, 
clarified down to its essence. 
I like closing the blinds at four p.m.
for a long evening of cozy solitude. 
I love December’s decorations,
and just enough snow sometimes
to soften the world.

Seems each of us has seasons to cheer
and together we make a very good year.
                        

The alligator with hooded lids
waiting beneath the bed,
the wolf baring teeth in the long tunnel closet, 
the lion stalking the corners of the nursery, 
and the foxes prowling the endless hallways
of my ancestral home
seemed manageable.
When I was four.
If I held my breath
and didn’t move,
they’d disappear. 
Unless they heard
my pounding heart.
But they never did.

Multiple decades later, the charm is gone.
We take classes to learn to breathe deeply,
exhale loudly.
We do aerobics, and kick boxing,
tai chi, and yoga, and pilates,
gentle or extreme,
the ultimate mantra to keep moving.

Yet lurking along the edges
of our civilized aging,
hidden in the density of unbidden dreams,
a new terror trumps the childhood ones
a thousandfold.
We’re smarter now.
We know one day 
there won’t be a choice to hold our breath;
no choice at all in staying still.

This time the predators wait patiently
knowing we can’t outgrow them,
knowing their turn will come.
They’re in no hurry.
They’ve been around a long long time.