From a field in Upstate, August 17th
This image belongs in glass
Let us hang there -- stock still smiles
and matching white sneakers
Catch the marbled sun rays
Hush the cicadas
momentarily
Paint us baby blue and fill a vase
with wildflowers
We are young and blossoming in crystal
My letter of resignation: This doesn’t mean I don’t love you
The rain is heavy and I am sorry that you’re wet,
but I cannot keep sharing with you.
This umbrella is my only umbrella,
and if you are dry then I am wet.
Sopping, dripping, pouring, crying,
water on my April skin and October hair.
You speak with a February tongue,
talk me into frigid and lonely.
There was a time when you smiled May sunshine,
we danced in September leaves
and made love with the lustful desperation of June thunderstorms.
The rain is heavy and hot and burns my lips
but it reminds me that it is June once again.
It is June
and we are not dancing or laughing or making love,
but sitting in a silence that cuts like the first November frost.
It is almost July
and there is no future in which you are not taking from me,
and so I am sorry that you’re wet,
but you cannot have my umbrella.