Should April be the cruelest month, thenAugust will do us in, all
the sparks flying of sun off water
igniting the tinder of past loves and losses.
Bright lit corners along the curbs, beneath
the trees shaking every last leaf
of memory down upon us, the whisper
scraping of what once was, the hushing of the now
warm wind, always fortelling the winter
of what might have been. We curl up
beneath that scorching summer grin, infatuated
with the light and cloudless days only
to find fitful rest between the roots remembering
the green of life above us, in our yore. Gone
the hyacinth and lilac, gone even now the lillies,
sere. You are the only vestige of desire.