April.. you were a sweet reminder
of the joyous oath of spring—
Slowly but surely,
coaxed the cold to give in..
I have this theory: Yours are the days
love nests to begin.
Call it cliché, that’s the way it must be
Scented your days are with blossom;
Roses and hope in bloom and in glee!

My, my, May!
you were so good to me!
You may as well be
my favourite of the three!
Your daylight hugs just—feel so sincere;
Quick-witted, heart-warmth breeze;
Natural sounds are echoes of
Loud family laughs—
May, please— I’m on my knees!
Like a lover that’s bright,
And made just for me—
The rest of the year I’ll be craving your heat!

A little dramatic,
But June, don’t despair!
Handle your graces
and trace sun-varnished grass,
Honour your promise,
You are meant to be warm!
Don’t be shy—bring lilac skies;
I’ve got you by the hand.
no doubt at all in my mind—
For my sole delight
You’ll open up beautifully right!

Spring came and went quickly this year,
a brief headache as the air
pressure shifted and then
the sun came in. And then
the Summer came in.
Too hot and too dry. Too busy.
The hustle and bustle of
sweaty people who wear too
little and talk too much.
This season is no good
This season is no good at all.

It will be a bad day today.
A bad week perhaps.
A bad month. Too hot and
too dry. Demanding.
Taxing. The machines
not working, the people
not stopping. Hate. Hate. Hate.
It is ungodly how much hate
one can feel towards the
changing of the skies,
and all who abide by it.
Hate in the nanoangatrom,
unequal to one one-billionth.

There is no season shorter than Summer,
not here. Spring and Autumn
stagger themselves: a birth
and a death, spread out across
two months or more.
And Winter lingers, clings;
it doesn’t easily let go.
Summer is Summer once
and then it’s done.
Summer is Summer for a day
a week, a month,
and then it’s not.
And yet it stretches.
An eon, an age,
eternal, hot and dry,
unable to sleep; unable
to stay awake,
a sort of purgatory –
long days and short nights.
No end. No end. No end.

And so, wait, a day, a week,
a month, on and
on, over and over,
until around comes Autumn.
The leaves browning,
the blossoms falling.
A decay that spreads,
the beautiful kind:
soft on the eyes,
on the soul. Breathable.
A breathable decay.
October again; slow, calm.
Blossoms falling. Slow. Slow.

And a thought, soft
like the growing clouds and
the promise of snow,
a thought that lingers, that
fades in, that leaves a stain:
    if today is not a good day
    then make it one.
The trees are bare now, there’s
room for more. Room
for you, to hang
and dangle, snap and
crumple, to drift gentle down
like falling blossom slowly
into a heap on the ground,
buried in pink or white,
buried in the death of Summer,
in the death of Spring.

Lawn mower,
At noon I hear yours echoes,
Like thunder, spread evenly
Across the earth.

Touching you
Always was unacceptable.
But now it's happened.

The wind rustles
My long plaid pants,
Touching the ends of my hair.
I walk slowly, rejoicing at this day.

Summer Days splashing in the river
The bike ride down
The wind in my face
My hair dancing with the breeze
I wish
every
Day
was like This

Dad,

Hanging up his hammock
While me and Maddie walk up the river
Making up our own games
And convincing Dad to let us
Swim in the river
Though the current was rough
I remember how he would sometimes
Say
“yes”
Letting the water
Engulf our bodies
Pulling us gently
Downstream

Years ago
I didn’t realize
I didn’t see how quickly
How quickly our world is disappearing
How quickly the water has dried up
Those days
Slipped out of my hands like water
Slowly          evaporating
Slipping from my hands
Dripping into some place
That is unknown

Someday
I will visit this place
The past of my life
The perfect days by the river
Someday.