seasons in poetry

I feel as though without my father
I’ll never know the springtime and
I’ll never know the autumn again
wherever I happen to be the seasons
will forever only hard-flip from
freezing to burning and back
no intermediate crispness
no more liminal freshness
to ever be found again
wherever I am
even if I lived
for a hundred more years
it’s summer or winter forever
wherever I am
without my father