One rarely thinks of snow.

Sonnet 7
Christopher Bogart

All that you were was all I’d never be
When first we met that warm September night.
I was repressed, and you were so carefree.
‘Twas no surprise our first words were to fight.
‘Twas no surprise when young head butted old
Though barely four Septembers came between
Our births and our young lives yet to unfold:
‘Twas seize the day against what could have been.
Yet somehow we saw past the barricades
And fled our fortresses for open ground.
Our hearts held hope that hope would never fade
As summer turned to fall without a sound.
Our love was new. Our lives had far to go.
On summer nights, one rarely thinks of snow.