To Keats

We are approaching my favorite time of year, but I am domiciled in a region of the country where seasons can pass unnoticed. I've joked before that Louisiana has but two seasons--hot and hotter. Still, even I must confess there has been a subtle shift in the way the air smells in the morning, long before it is sullied by blistering noon day sun. It has a smoky, aged tinge, and I sense it each morning now, heading early out the door with mug in hand and babe in arm, moving with raw feeling toward the idling truck to take the Tech Sergeant to work.

If I turn down the air conditioner and and wear a sweater, I can almost feel it coming. Till it does, I've got Keats.

And so do you.