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
Maybe I have just always longed
for a taste of something warmer.