Stories always seem to start in the summer
Not as in
"begin"
or for the first time
be conceived,
but when they live

Winter is dormant,
all the laid groundwork
beneath frozen grass,
yellow-green ice shards
protruding from their
chandelier garden

Hopes and
wishes and
dreams and
sadness and
loves

Pent up
for the past 9 months,
emotional gestation
released in
a bacchanalian
of shameless
feelings
and ritzy wine-coolers

Drink from the goblet.

Fear of the Kool-Aid
has past.

It's immortality.