Mary Schellenberg

The Florida sun beats down on my taut, tan skin
as the water, so satisfied by sand, crashes against my feet.
Its summery rays mock the ocean’s persuasion,
jamming my cheeks with a blush in benign passion,
so that I may feel its intensity.

The dry bite of the Illinois wind simultaneously whistles
in audition for its own strength,
dragging a flushed color to my nose
resembling the hue of the fire inside.

It’s because of this coldness I indulge in jeans and a sweater
that mimic the envelope of heat of a Southern sun.
A sun which, at times too parching,
makes gesture to the revitalizing ocean.

I think now of wading in its shallow water,
a cold rush upon my feet.
The warm air slowly feeling more bearable,
I may now indulge in the heat.