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After the rain, the sun on grass and lane, delivering faceward aromas that could belong only to summer. Sometimes, in later months, we would pretend December’s rain was July’s as we gazed through steam-beaded glass, the crackling fire behind us, saying little, hardly need of words. We would imagine we smelled the grass, anointed with the gentle summer spray, its beneficent caress, so light of touch, like a lover’s fingertips brushing cherished flesh. The crackling fire before us now, we sit, say little, so few words to say, each recalling how, long ago, we could turn winter into summer.

(Aug 2022)

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Such visual lines her Andrew. Summer and winter scenes. But also touches the reader on an emotional level. Poignant stanzas about aging. The green green grass of home has many meanings. Lovely work. Have a good day. That final stanza speaks volumes.

Chris

[Ken e Bujold]

Love the poem Andrew. Great opener, could picture the scene immediately from the image you painted. I also admired the poignancy of wishing Dec rains were July's

definitely be back to read more of your work
Ken e

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Isn't it interesting how we often imagine seasons opposite of what they actually are.

heat and humidity in December....Snow in August.
j.