In other years,
Those times, now hastily sealed in envelopes,
Memories of those days of rain:
An incessant November after a scorched Halloween,
Or cold February rain, broken by snow,
Gusting loud and clear that afternoon,
In another damp celebration,
To the beat of scowling wind and staccato raindrops.
Winter’s pulse traced across every window.
Then, rivers of emerald velvet,
Concealing cobbled dreams,
The electricity of fish,
And the hard lines of trees
Against soft winter skies.
We dreamed of things outside us.
Now, we wake in the crisp, tingling night
Like the sound of a pin snapping,
Where it lingers on the cold edge of dawn
And stretches under the long fetch of winter sun.
Summer’s long pause distilled and bare.
These days trudge on,
Held fast under shadowy chill
Where summer escaped,
As we wonder if it ever left.
We will remember this time.