Summer of Tangerines
inconstant strangers, reading
together in lamplight, staying up
with the moon. The wind
blew in through the curtains,
ruffled the pages of our lives.
That was the summer of tangerines,
of mornings waking up
entangled in each other's dreams.
When we pulled back the window curtains
each pane glistened with its own color,
like jars of apricot and peach
arranged on a cupboard shelf.
We lay on the grass and watched the Pacific
billow above us in clouds.
You said, tomorrow the wind
would scatter them all away,
bring the summer back.
Lying there with you then,
watching the sky's colors
unravelling from white,
I believed that summer
would skip endlessly on,
like a stone on water.
Now, with the edge of October's sun
pushing against September's seams,
I feel the chill of a different wind;
I feel the song of that summer
calling me, calling me back.