Florida's Cold Has Got Me Beaten

Florida's Cold Has Got Me Beaten

I've braved the blaze of August days,
When skies turned brass and breath was thin,
When palmetto bugs are in the bathroom light
Would dance their slow, electric dance.
I've walked on streets that shimmered hot,
Like coals beneath my sandy soles,
And laughed while sweat became my skin—
But this... this cold has cracked my soul.

For sixty-two degrees crept in,
With whispers through the cypress trees,
A brittle wind, a mocking chill,
That made the geckos shiver, still.
The palm trees shivered in their trunks,
The manatees huddled near warm springs,
And I—yes, I, born to the sun—
Pulled on a hoodie. Wore long sleeves.

The tourists fled in tank tops, bold,
While locals bundled like the North,
Our coffee cups in trembling hands,
Our souls undone by fifty-nine.
We lit our patios with firepits,
Discussed the weather like New Englanders,
And cursed the sky, that cruel blue vault,
Now laced with frost no one foresaw.

The lizards froze upon the bricks,
The pelicans wore tiny scarves (imagined),
And even alligators dreamed of tropics,
Of steam and swamp and constant heat.
And I, who swore I'd never flinch
At hurricane or drought or storm,
Am felled not by the tempest’s might—
But Florida’s cold has got me beaten.

So bring back the burn, the blistered noon,
The air like soup, the sun's full war—
I'll face the scorch, the flood, the flame,
But not this dread of fifty-five.
For in this land of endless summer,
Chill is not a season—
It is a sin.
And I, its victim, barely breathing,
Whisper south: "Just let it end."