Summer is here, the bright new boy!
Though he missed our connection last year.
That seems my fault, yet I’m not quite sorry.
I came with the car to “Arrivals,”
but never looked up from the ground,
claimed ignorance,
and drove home happily — the passenger seat occupied by your reminiscence.
Now somewhere ahead, across the terminal horde,
his promising season awaits,
hopping up and down,
smiling,
bright wide eyes,
outstretched neck,
searching the crowd for an imagined eager, delighted, me.
My sign truly says “Summer, your ride,”
but I wrote it in yellow on a dull white card,
my arms slack
my fingers irresponsibly partially obscuring the “S”
Dawdling in his direction,
absent of mind,
head turned over my shoulder,
I’m longing for December’s girl.
A few notes
This poem was written after a parting that arrived before the friendship felt finished. It gestures toward a refusal to accept the turning of seasons, lingering instead with someone associated with winter. Even as time moved forward, I didn’t—not out of defiance exactly, but out of tenderness.
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