their seasons

damp brow
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

pre-twilight
early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave behind
don’t leave summer behind

evergreen
through July’s singe of grass
first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
leaves
traces of longing

what do you suppose
the clouds talk about
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite
the slammed door
one red apple

by August’s fireflies
he-on the road
writing sonnets on social media
bursts
from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
breathless
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call
each word counted
and kept

starting his wander back
he searches for her key
in a pocket with a hole in it
knowing
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June

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