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."