Meeting with Summer

By Frankie Wilkin

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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.