When the trees sigh in summer,
I shall let my head wander the wilderness.
In that such arrivals bring
what even Helios favors,
a glow that crumbles upon the swing
of little stars’ hook and sea,
off-flavor at even his chariot’s return
that they disappear. Even the mountains get confused,
at their standstill they discern not the brave
from the one that stays near the base.
When the trees sigh in the summer,
I shall find us content, unwanting,
hands frozen as if such nemesis is time,
always present, always gone—
and what memory can save us, what discovery?
I can only hear the rustle of the assuming wind,
I can only see its existence expressed
through the tangles in the locks of your hair.
When the trees sigh in the summer, I shall find my rest
in the lowest of leaf, that though sun is far,
with the slightest tiptoe, your hands can reach
and caress me.
— A. P.