You think I speak of blood lineage,
Clearly I hold the whetstone,
But that's because you're dull.

Maybe,
I am.

From my shine, shimmer-
I'll stay solid as file;
Whether if needed firm or gentle,
Soft or abrasive.

In address to the west,
The rising sun.

At least, that's from our perspective.

From the hammer
Who shaped the stone.

Sticky summer evening,
Warm, young, beautiful.
Flitting throughout the night,
Bountiful bundles of fireflies.
Flickering in the breezes,
A soft golden mist.
New summer's evening,
Graced by the lightning bugs.

Sun is overhead, temperature is high.
All are tired and removed the tie.
Prayed for rain, but no gain.
It emptied a river, it emptied a lane.
A sudden thunder hits a cloud,
Over bumped cloud, burst aloud.
Drops of water hits the land,
Satisfaction fills the mind.
A sudden splash stopped the rain.
It ends the Summer Rain!

Poets coming into Rochester,
Welcome to the perfect poetic city!
We're dark in November,
Blinding in May.
Sleepy streets,
Winding roads.
Dinner at a diner,
Welcome to your second home, it's a winner's city for sure.

The weather is important when writing a play,
Such is when Romeo and Juliet was shown,
It was a cold and raining day.

So the audience would forget about the heat,
Off in fair Verona had Shakespeare failed,
To keep mention of the begrudging summer.

In my childhood,
This city embraced me—
Open arms, warm and tender,
Like a lover greeting the beloved.

But now, for years,
It has become a dense jungle of people,
A place where no one speaks,
Where gatherings are no more.
Memories are left untouched,
Unspoken, unshared.

The days slip by—
They end as quickly as they begin.
Was there even an afternoon today?
I can’t recall.

Winter barely departed,
And summer rushed in too soon.
The gentle pause of spring,
Its fleeting beauty,
Seems lost to time.

I stand here, puzzled,
Wondering, searching—
Where has the spring of my city gone?