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.