what good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?
John Steinbeck

a young boy bikes along the train tracks
and is dragged underneath the rails,
the wreckage of his bicycle entangled with the wreckage of his body.

a ferrous stench fills the air
and a river of blood carves its path in the pebbles lining the dirt.

though there is a scream
and a murmur amongst the crowd

the air is tinny and humid and heavy
the sounds are muffled like a television in another room.

miles away,
a grandfather’s last shivering breath is drawn,
the slow rise of his ascitic abdomen falling for the final time.
his family is not present.
his family has not been present in decades.

the world spins at its usual pace,
car horns blare and gravel crunches under weary feet.

hearts are broken and mended.
love is lost and found.
a child throws a tantrum in the mall, and her mother blushingly
grabs her daughter’s bruised arm and takes her outside.

winter befalls individuals in millions every day,
and for some, the winter will never clear.

so tell me,
what good is the cold of winter
if summer never lifts the fog?