Lately I've been waiting.
Waiting for the trees to lose
their leaves, for the clouds to release
their snow, for April showers to summon
buttercups from the soil.
Autumn builds a cathedral above
my impatient head as light
shimmers through fallow branches
while the sycamores blossom orange.
Till winter's bustling breeze
pushes up daisies, and summer returns
to my arms (unnoticed and sudden).
I'll wait on whoever moves
the universal chess pieces to
exile the frost speckling my yard.
Sitting on edge, as spring's
raspberry sunset grazes the tree line
(and allergies drip from my nose),
I try to spy a lightening bug--
any trace or sign
of summer.
She'll arrive late May,
with curls toss'd like the sea and
blue eyes two shades lighter
than a cloudless sky.
Treasure her while she lingers,
notice how her bonfires consider
your friends' faces with a wild blaze--
dim, but bright all the same.
Let the sun brown your shoulders,
moving through each day she tucks away
with adoration. Forgive her
for fading, for she's pulled by the wrists on
Galaxy's timeline.
She'll throw back her head
with a laugh that says,
"You don't know me,
and never will."
Then she'll leave you
waiting all year long.