A road like brown ribbon,
A sky that is blue,
A forest of green
With the sky peeping through.
Asters, deep purple,
A grasshopper’s call,
Today it is summer,
Tomorrow is fall.
– Edwina Fallis
Do you remember summer?
Where it went, what – everything – it held
in its arms. I wrote you a summer poem,
back then, about grasses and fritillaries
before our first baby was born
before the fall, before it all
came crashing down. No one would’ve ever
believed it, least of all we, twined two-in-one
and everyone would say
that “they’re forever”: they’d say that
What didn’t we understand? That only nothing lasts?
I wrote for you a wisp of whisperwind
in my romantic voice, so long ago, now figmentary
I spun to you in life, in love
to tell you what your loving meant to me: in sum,
mere everything; night’s chamber music, minuets
August afternoons asleep in shifting sands or swimmingly
in shallows; how you rescued my ring that day at Dionis
The newtpads in the rearview mirror, the diving osprey,
musk ox yarn, and bleuets and green eggs, tide going out
into the ocean, you paddling your beautiful boat
in a saltwater cove, a cup filled up with tears.
Pale yester years, when grasshoppers’ calls meant
nothing. I call you now to tell you
that I loved you in that rosehip summer
and in every sweet soft season.
And this: I love you still and always will.
Will you remember?
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