You come to us when hope is gone,
grey sog-ed muddy though we be.
A corner of the planet
slashed from Spring’s itinerary.
When finally when you show your face,
we swoon and soak our need.
We must not waste one bit of you.
Burnt parchment skin, with greed.
Proud we are when sun beats hot,
to let our grass dry dead and brown.
As if to say, we’ve paid our due.
We’ll have a summertime here, too!
Even when the rain returns,
has now been months since sun shone here,
wipers working overtime,
cross the oft-washed window blur.
Lawn now filled in nice and green,
I find myself in summer things.
Legs a-shiver’n in my shorts.
Feet still lacking shoes.
A way to hold onto the heat,
tapping barefoot blues.
By Lisa Boyl-Davis
August 18, 2016