---

∴

the summer was never mine.

not in its heat
that my flesh sweat in,

nor under its sun
that fed all i had planted,

and brought freckles
out upon my cheeks.

 

it was never mine
when i dug shallow holes
in its wormed, black dirt

and seeded
all my dreams
and moon flowers.

 

it was not mine
when i sought the shade
and begged the bees to share space
and not to sting.

 

it was not mine
when i hid from its humid wrath
and cowered in cool corners
that it might pass me by.

 

it was not mine
when it began to turn
and call to her solstice
of consummation.

 

the summer was never mine.

 

she was love,
that was full
of hot and rain,
and growth and pain,
and wind that woke you,
and thunder that shook you
with its might.

 

she was lesson
and season
and passing.

she was glad to give herself to you
in all her fragrant blooms,
in all her colors,
and unhidden skies,

 

but she was never to be kept
that long.

 

not longer than her nature could allow.

 

now i hold to these vines
like memory
that will brown and brittle in time,
with gratitude
and bittersweet peace,

for the summer was never mine.

∴

 

 

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