Tuesday, May 04, 2004

I.

“You’d miss the seasons,” I say
casually picking at my unfinished salad
watching fireflies strobelight the lateness
of a summer evening (they tangle
in the brilliant grass, in the canny spiderweb)
“Miss winter?” you reply, vivid eyes
registering only a quizzical incomprehension.
“Why?”

II.

speak, memory:
semi-warm spring shower; a surprised
trumpet of buttery-golden daffodils;
delicate translucent rainbow tulips
(in the sunshine, glowing) delineate
a grey-damp cobblestone

a precision of language
words to describe
the slide of summer
from dog-days slumberous
to apple-crisp fall

the momentary fragile purity born of
snow defining a weary christmas city,
cloaking it in the colour
of a long-lost innocence

III.

the late evening light creeps
behind the low walls,
and the elongated stick-man shadows
remind us that it is time
to part.

I will miss you when I am gone –
when you have left, your shadow-self
a living, laughing thing in my memory;
when you have forgotten my name
and my homeland and my tales
of an eternal summer, broken by rain –
just like you would miss the seasons’
predictable rhythm of change.

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