She lies in her lone bed,
sheets like melting butter,
and listens as the wind
whips the heavy rain
against the window.
A television plays
faintly, though
she can hear only the
constant rain,
beating the side of the house
like a drum.
Thunder cracks.
It does not startle her.
She simply leans
further into her satin sheets
and dreams of the
dew she will find
on the tulips in the front yard
come morning.

She wants to stay inside,
to run all the fans
and the air conditioner too,
but the weather intrigues her
and perplexes her.
She runs her hand
against the cold blue water,
the sand between her toes.
She walks along the beach
amazed.
At the end of the day,
her arms grow sore
from carrying so many retrieved
seashells.
Some may call her childish,
but she likes to think of it
as curious.

Leaves blanket the ground,
dainty feet crunching against them,
the crisp air absorbing
her laughter.
She feels the window
cool her heated face,
a gust blowing back her
curly locks
like a shampoo commercial.
She can almost hear
the clouds whistling as they move
in the darkened sky.
The feeling is indescribable.
She takes in a deep breath
and the freshness fills her lungs,
and she feels at peace with herself
once again.

The snow seems to sparkle
under the bleak winter sun.
She steps
through it carefully
in her big black boots.
She molds a
snowball, though
she has no one to
chuck it at.
She runs her hand along
an icicle hanging from
her cherry tree.
She bites her cheek and rubs
her frozen hands
together.
“One of these days,
I’ll have someone to enjoy
the seasons with,” she
thinks to herself
as she
goes back inside.
She waits for spring
and for the cycle to repeat.