Where does the solstice light go
once our midsummers are fallen into autumn
And the Junes and Julys are faded
like the whirr of so many cicadas
I search for meaning but find
after midnight swims in midnight oceans
only broken sensations Salt drying on sun-baked arms
The staccato ticking of a mortal clock
ushers me to a too-bright sleep
A splash of green on grey canvas
epheme stroke of the mad painter
light is fleeting, gaiety false
And each peal of child laughter begs tears
for defatigable youth.
Return to us the still peace of winter
Memories sealed in cold indifference
time frozen in the pale brilliant.
I cannot die in January.
Perfid summer, who would steal from us our natal chill.
Comments
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i like "i cannot die in January."
it is very creative and very powerful.
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