Admittedly, I am far more attracted to the silhouette of autumn.
In her dying hues she reminds me always of the fires inside me,
fires at a distance in their ebbing warmth and crackling invitation.
The way I want to burn.
Also do I harbour a quiet adoration for winter.
Fresh powdery silences much like the quiet in my bones,
Imprinting and imprinted on daily.
The way I darken so quickly, and brighten so new.
For spring my love is in smatterings.
Mostly for the rain she has in abundance, water I have
craved to possess in spirit but can never keep.
The way I will puddle in need and in want.
What then of summer.
Summer is not like the others. But she is all the others too.
She is my spring, autumn and winter in retrospect and foresight.
In her I find the way to restless rest and the communion of solitude.
In her I befriend the good of patience and the will of impatience.
In her I know the raging fire of my strength and the burns of my mistakes.
In her there are tears, streaked rain, and sweaty palm lines.
Summer takes me home and home and home, layers that get larger and more real.
She reminds me to wash off the blackening disappointment of my footsteps.
I remember white crests of grace and beauty and hope, tell my skin to be salt.
What tenacity that is tender?
What laughter that is firm?
What grip that is gentle?
That is who I want to be.
Here is longing,
the shape of me now and tomorrow and yesterday.
Look, here is the summer heat, and here is the breeze.
I am always coming to love all that burns within my body.
This year I am teaching my backbone the way of the palm tree,
and when they have fallen the bamboo forest is waiting.
I am welcoming the mist and have learned a dance to step when it leaves.
But I will gather myself together, like skirts in my grip.
There is the after-rain in my fingertips,
warm still, sunsoak memorying.