The summer season sweetens me as ripe figs. Roused by the dawn; caught in the itch of long grass. August daydreams lie orphaned as September crawls up like wild ester. Soft persimmon sap trickles along my jaw, lost in the feasible pursuit of devil-may-care. Seems sudden, the way the days accelerate, bursting like fox grapes. Inside, the taste of winter grows. Snow blankets the sleepy carcass of hibernation. Comfort pooling like a honey spoon hovered over warmed milk. Spring presses in fragile as the first crocuses of the frost-hardened earth, tender-rooted. & the first blush of June stumbles through & I almost cry at the sweetness of it–
Tears spill down as rain
but so does the everso
tipping summer woe