Inside summer's chrysallis, water burned.

A pulsating haze scorched the fledgling cornstalks

and slammed into the thick silver mist stemming from the nearby stream.

It called to mind the distant dread of winter,

which had never seemed quite so important.

Perhaps it was the rough aged teak framing the wheels of raging bicycles,

and the way it cast wandering fingers aside with a burst of warmth,

or the way the wind caught the colorful aura of stained glass

and thrust it back into the sky.

Perhaps it was mango lemonade served on a dime

or dark pastures lit up with fireflies and gentle laughter.

Perhaps - no, surely - it was the sun's silent embrace,

lurking in every fractal gaze,

in every fading ocean,

and in the fleeting shadows of the thaw.