Behind our house, grow orange flowers.
Waving; glistening, blue from rain.
Thunder causes them to shiver,
Lightening, illuminates the train.
The whistle sounds despite the torrent,
Muffled by the water's path.
I am walking on the sidewalk,
In the mist of morning's math.
Are they poppies? Bright green stalks.
They highlight our back cement.
The one bright spot in all the alley,
Marks our house, for we're content.
Soon will come the heat of summer,
Raging, bursting, bright and warm.
Spring is fading fast and faster,
Trees are budding with this storm.
I will long for rainstorms' whisper,
I will thirst for thunder's boom.
My heart burns for lightening's flash,
When hiding from the sun, in rooms.
Fans will dance with undulation,
Slow; their breath across our skin.
Iced tea sweats in glasses warming,
Brewed with sunshine, ice cubes thin.
We shall swim in lakes and rivers,
Beer and wine, tequila too.
I'll not drink, but taste the mint,
Which bites my water glass full through.
All too soon the evening's crickets,
Singing deep in trees and grass,
Will foretell of wind and fire,
Leaping, to repeat the past.
Ripe the fruit of lazy summer,
Sweet the taste of morning dew.
Sweat and freckles, books and movies,
All delivered right to you.
Then the evenings' mud will harden,
Cold and solid; black and thick.
Autumn comes; it slips right in,
Behind your thoughts; a worthy trick.
I shall miss the summer showers,
Wearing next to nothing: skin.
Fall, my favorite winds my hours,
For now, the rain begins again.