First, you should know
this is not a poem for summer.
This poem is for the darkest winter hours,
near Solstice, I should think.
Not for tonight, when swallows
are chasing each other through the sky,
and reckless seagulls are climbing
those tall ladders of clouds.
Not for tonight, when flowers and weeds
are all blushing rose, when the sun is sinking
into a featherbed of gold, purple-clad
paramours dancing attendance.
Pull out this poem when the first
blast of nor’easters hits,
when you’re trying to recall warm,
the smoky voice of that jazz lady
up there on the stage tonight,
the orange light shining between us.
Save a couple of Summer Shandy ales,
and stretch out with them by the fire,
on that blanket with old burn marks
and wine stains in the shape of roses.
Forget that another year is gone.
Forget what lies ahead.


© by Sharon Auberle.
Used with the author's permission.