8/20/2019

Lines i’d written
the day after we’d slept in the football field:
every summer has a different flavor,

a different sight,
a different scent
the golden glow stays the same

and the way i never fully get to feel
what i meant
to say,

but the way
the light hits the trees:
it haunts me.

what i meant was this:
the light through the slats of the leaves
of the alders

is gold
when i wake up
and roll over back to bed.

it stays that way when i
step out,
yet less imposing,

it’s everywhere
along with the
blue of the sky.

II
were we on the swings?
i can’t quite remember
but i stared at the slatted light’s impression on the walkway

and said nothing to myself
looked at the green of the leaves,
at my shoes, at you, back at the sky again

wondered if i’d
miss this moment
and i did, and i do.