In the endless summer
where the seasons never change,
there are two camps.
Some say the sun is a welcome heat;
compared to other climes they’ve known,
that may be so.
But the other camp thinks differently.
Moving to a place and growing up in it translates 
to a difference in perspective,
a difference in choice.

The first camp favors perpetual sun.
On the surface, it’s pleasant, 
as anyone could certainly agree.
But they’ve never looked ahead to rain’s respite
nor hoped to taste a crystalline winter’s morning.
Their eyes shining at the promise 
of the place they call home
at last aligning with the time of year.
(Maybe this time).
They can marvel at the warmth
because they haven’t been around
long enough to experience its swelter.
That subtle shift that snaps you to attention—
a moment defying logic and explanation,
when you’re burned by
the very light you rely on to survive.
To them the sun is relaxed and kind.
How could it not be, when
it’s so bright and comforting?

You’d have to live in the sun, like the second camp. 
Live without a break
from the sun 
and its tempestuous inclinations,
its relentlessness, 
and penchant for large-scale conflagrations 
to know that sunny and easy 
doesn’t mean free.

You’d have to get used to living at a low-pitched
state of turmoil, praying that the volume doesn’t 
suddenly tip over into chaos—knowing there
is always a chance.
You’d make friends with a sickening 
sense of déjà vu—
the cycle of cognitive dissonance that marks
the passage of time without ever 
actually moving forward.

Endless summer sounds like paradise
until you need to breathe.