The cool days gone,
Summer grows from the seeds
Sprinkled when we
Weren’t looking closely;
We rise, occasions
Loosely canons of our
Beakers of winter
Brew over hotbeds we
Ignored; we
Understood subconscious-
Ly, that was familiar,
A dream I remembered
Quietly in the morning
Until it looked like you,
Sideways and unsturdy,
In that way we
Feel. Dry champagne,
The metaphor of affection, I
Acquaint with the scent
Of your hand lotion
And that song I liked best
On the way to work.
They remind me of snow,
And, especially, of skiing.
The fatalists stand up
For a good look at spring
Moving into months
We forgot in our pockets,
And our words were raw
From rubbing them together.
Breath colors January
and pavement autumn,
While snow begins to think
Out loud,
Ready to speak the
Repetition of nostalgia.

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