Only One of a Dozen Seasons

The world turns barren
For a little bit.
It will get richer,
More detailed again.
Will you be with it?

It’s funny poets
In other climates,
Each from the other,
Will bicker about
Which seasons matter—

Winter, fall, summer,
Hurricane, blizzard,
Dry season, monsoon,
Nothing, no seasons
At all, just the moon.

Here, in a northern
Hemisphere’s desert,
The world’s getting bare,
Barer than it’s been,
For a little bit,

Hard frosts and bone clear
Nights when traffic thins
Out under moonlight
And coyotes whine,
Just to be with it.