Meeting with Summer

By Frankie Wilkin


The boy next to me bought waffles,


with blueberries and ice cream,

and a small paper cup of foamed butter.

the shaved ice beard melted slowly,

dissolving downwards into cloud fluff

and purple stones like square periwinkle blossoms.


When Summer walks in,


I go quiet. It is in the midst of winter,

but she is just as beautiful as I remembered -

kind basset hound face,

auburn hair like a sun slipping into bed.

Where she walks, flowers grow, daisies and crocuses in full bloom.


Summer touches my arm on


my way out, as I slip coins into a pocket

(a penny falls to the ground),

absentmindedly feeling a squeeze of

her fingers and watching her lily flower lips lilt

into a twisting vine smile.


And I have always


tasted like fall, like warm cups of coffee

and wool sweaters, like crisp blue

skies and icy rainfall not quite

freezing over…

Maybe I have just always longed


for a taste of something warmer.