I'm not particular.
I see what you mean.
But this makes sense also.
If it's not true, it might have been.

I like a bleak November day,
Its gray nostalgia, gray regret.
I like the promises of May,
The hope that helps me to forget.

I need a nearness to the sea,
But mountainscapes can thrill me best.
I can't decide where I should be
And live here in the Middle West.

I keep a garden by the gate.
I prune and fertilize and weed.
I spray for aphid, cultivate,
And all the ripe fruit goes to seed.

I'd miss my sadness if it left.
I temper all my joys with peace,
Steal happiness and pay the theft,
And know the pain will still increase.

I'd rather read. I don't go out.
Of habits devil, angel in this:
It wraps me in a skeptic's doubt,
Shields me from love, the hurtful kiss.

Things sudden, bright, original, unique,
Are much too swift for me to snatch.
My soul has sought them...and will seek
What it knows it cannot catch.

They also serve who only wait,
Wasting no blind or fruitless strides.
My opinions are too soon, too late.
I'm opposite the time of tides.