You, sprung from streets

and cities of hot seasons redolent

of tar and fetid waterways, river

being a misnomer for these sluggish

grey channels with concrete

banks and chainlink fence scenery-

You didn’t know the smell of the sun,

only chlorine haze and burning

rubber bodied machinery.

I had inhaled it; summer

dreaming sweat stained cool sheets

of faded paisley sun dried

on the line that divided the lilacs

from the hayfield.

The farm! Three years gone

and summer with it- still internally protesting the turn from the highway to town.

I had jumped up to lead you

to secret meadows where does hid their fawns

dappled in sun and wild youth

before I remembered.

It was winter anyway and the barn

to the trees

to the sky

would be uniformly gray.

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