summers come to leave,
for no more reason than to impress
a lightness, like reprieve
as it gives way to fall (as summers do)
one thing that’s for certain is
summers return — and what are you?
are you half-a-summer, gripped
whence brightedge and fireflower bloom
in the muddy rivers of June,
where sunrays would dash like gazelles
playfully, in the heart of moon?
summers come to leave
the greycone and pineshutter weave
on forlorn flecks of umber, cruel
memories of winter.
and what are you?
are you half-a-summer, too?
did you forget that the world
in its dance with the sun, come
full-circle around the edges of weather—
and how neglected weathers mourn—
for you came to leave, as summers burn,
but you forgot to return.
— A. P.