• i was irate the day that summer slapped me in the face.
    leaving me red with the red paint, and the colors of fall, falling around me in displace.
    your thick clay hands spread over me in during those sun rayed days, crawling up my arms and into my eyes,
    i became your bed of stones, and you trickled through me, the wind knock my rocks about, like a boat on your knees.
    i was the letter you wrote beneath that big tree in the park,
    that quiet wash of words you spread over the paper in a hurry to get them out, let them spark, let them shout,
    for you.

    because words were your medicine when the summer left you behind,
    your patch of sky, your blue water, after hours, after your cold shower,
    told you that winter was on your heels.
    that your friends had left.
    and another hour, passed you by
    collecting dust in your pockets
    patches of sun,
    rushed onto your legs
    and made you warm again.

    a touch of your summer soul.