In warmer months you’d fold and wedge away
our full-bodied down comforter and shake open
the knitted tweed throw from the foot of the bed.
You’d lay it over us the next six months, so light
I thought I’d float away in my sleep, and perhaps
you hoped I would. Never mind you kept things
glacial all year round, or that my toes were frozen
peas between the sheets; Summer was knocking,
and I knew you as a married woman, committed,
if not to me, then to the seasons. For as long as I
loved you, you kept every single promise to July.