The whirring of the plastic blades
Bring such a small relief
The prospect of a restless night
Cements the firm belief

I wasn't made for tropic climes
Though beautiful to see.
Yes, I was made for cold, sublime!
It's where I'm 'sposed to be.

A cup of coffee in my hand
To quell the morning chill
An extra blanket on the bed,
Completes the morning thrill

Of living where the air is cool,
A place we do not sweat.
But swel'tring temps weigh down on me
And leave me dripping wet.

The night is long, I toss and turn
When will the morning come?
The roasting cycle starts anew;
It's ushered by the sun

by David C. Rogers
9/2018, From Haiti