Summer, virgin bride, hides in winter’s
Greedy grasp to make us wait
For her promised glory. At last
June wends its way past
Borning of summer to
Seek July’s pressing fire.
Days of grill fed smoke,
Sunstroke and rude shock of
Black powder’s shriek and boom.
Ice cream cranked under shade
Of smoke house wall, flags
Both loved, scorned, waft under
A listless wind curling round the oak.
August waits in the wing, scritch
Of locust and hush of sun burned doze.
Baby birds fly.
Remember summer hidden in winter’s
Greedy grasp . . .?
I wish instead
The gift of April’s easy
opening of her flower,