Under the cast of blue that

Night brushes over my eyes

The rough texture of canvas 

Peeks out from behind

And I try not to count the lights

That watch me every night

It’s not summer here

The brush whispers underfoot

You walk atop a graveyard 

Of lost childhood memories

Curls of fog

Wrap around my lips

As my reflection shines

Across frosted glass

The world no longer breathes

Across rolling treetops.

And waving branches

That once grasped for the sun

Now stand as monuments,

Their wills etched 

Into stone

It’s not summer here

Bubbling rivers,

Which once gasped for air,

Amidst a sea of smiles

And splashing children

Now trickle with the echoes

Of fading laughter

The imaginary music box

Of distant birds

Plays in the background 

Of fuzzy memories

Of dripping ice cream

That painted faces

And endless sidewalks

It’s not summer here

And everything is torn 

Between the fleeting past

And marching future

Boots frozen, 

I strain rashly 

For the simple breezes

Of cloudless skies

That whistled 

Through strands of hair

On picnic afternoons   

It’s not summer here

I tell myself

As I wait patiently

On playground swings

For children

For teenagers

For adults

Who have long since forgotten

The smell of chalk

And though my fists

Continue gripping the chains

The vivid greens

And crystal blues

Of comfort

Begin to dim

As well