summer
never truly loved her
she thought
kicking
the last soft waves
of the season
like they were
a pile of autumn
leaves

closed her eyes
from the sunrays
imagining
the oranges and pinks
of sunset
painted by the trees
answering to the
cold whispers
of the wind

winter
they call but still, summer
never truly loved her
she thought
but as the last soft waves
crash to her feet
the little bubbles
like the first fall
of snow

she thought
of the heavy footsteps of mud
and the snow-covered boots
on the porch
the subtle smell of pine
circling around
the divot on the couch
the bubbles from
soapy dishwater
waltzing in the kitchen
it means
you're home

and though summer
might not have truly loved her
it never took away
her metaphors
to describe what
love looks like
and love looks like
dry leaves scattered like
freckles on your cheeks
on the old cobblestones
we walk on
on Sunday mornings

it's like a pair
of warm socks,
hot cocoa and marshmallows,
and Christmas carols
it's waking up right where you belong
like blossoms greeting
the first sunlight
after months of snow
and it's summer
when the agony of waiting
under the scorching sun
learns to turn into

patience
love is these seasons
giving way to
years
and patterns
we will never get tired of
summer
might not have truly loved her
but she'd hoped that one day
you truly would
and
you did.