becoming myself (book 2 to poems)

wasting time

when the cold bites at our noses and dances vigorously across our faces, we complain it's too cold.
we wish it were spring.
and then the rain comes along with the mud we track through our homes and we complain that it's not adequate for our satisfaction.
we wish it were summer.
the waves of heat and the condensation drips down our crimson and burned faces, we complain it's too hot.
we can't wait for fall.
and fall arrives with gusts of crisp air and the balding trees waver, we complain about the slight bitterness of cold easing back down our spines.
we wish it were another time.
when will anything be good enough.
when will the hunger be satisfied.
i too complain, and i realize how wishing for something to be over without appreciation
hurts.
it hurts in the end.