New Seasons

It is here,
the dear memory of spring
revived like Lazurus.
And life must summon
hope from the heat,
from the rain's reminder:
Keep breathing.

On summer nights,
of stifled thunder,
the air ignites with meteors,
with expectation.  You sleep.
You dream on balconies
naked, wrapped
in powdered sheets
that tug at your desire.

The sun comes--
curious enough--
to caress all of you,
the linen of your skin,
not yet torn
not yet opened.

But you remember
all of this, at least
a version
that turns on the loss
that costs you
everything
come Fall.

As summers go
in radiant succession
and elm and oak
and aspen grow
tired of their modesty,
an honest shrug
is all it takes
to denude
your father's stand.

Now,
shorn of color,
humbled by the snow
and barely breathing,
there are whispers.
All your secrets lay
beneath the poverty
of Winter.