Standing here, by the bay, as a clay
Scorching sun roast all that comes her way,
Hot and dry, favoring burning hays
The cool ice of the snow stars it eyes
Envying white backgrounds, sleeves to thighs
Especially the warmth by heaters
And the feelings wearing Hood sweaters.
The tides comes cleaning all where it lay
Complaining about current by the bay
Sniffing toy cigarettes, snowball say;
You know not the treasures at your prize
Over there the white snows often rise
Disrupting roads, tossing the lungs
Loading roofs, jailing all for so long.
