Lately I’ve been waiting,

waiting for something—for the trees to lose

their leaves, for the clouds to release

their snow, for April showers to summon

the buttercups from the soil.

Autumn builds a cathedral above

my impatient head as light

shimmers through fallow branches

while the sycamores blossom orange.

Till winter’s bustling breeze

pushes up daisies, and summer comes

back to my arms (unnoticed and sudden)

I’ll wait on whoever moves

the universe’s chess pieces to

exile the frost speckling my yard.

Sitting on edge, as spring’s

raspberry sunset grazes the tree line,

and allergies drip from my nose,

I try to spy a lightning bug—

any trace or sign

of summer.

She’ll arrive late May,

with curls toss’d like the sea and

blue eyes two shades lighter

than a cloudless sky.

Treasure her while she lingers,

notice how her bonfires consider

your friends’ faces, with a wild blaze

dim, but bright all the same.

Let the sun brown your shoulders,

moving through each day she tucks away,

with adoration.  Forgive her

for fading, for she’s pulled by the wrists on

the galaxy’s time line.

She’ll throw back her head,

laughing a laugh that says

“You don’t know me,

and never will.”

Then she leaves you—

leaves you waiting all year long.