Andria

16

Tempest

What is summer
without the sun?
I’ll tell you:
It is the dark and warm
before the cold.

The good days are
the light before the dark and the cold,
when the sun beats down
on the skin of playing children.
Summer is the fluttering wings of butterflies
and catching fireflies in the clear nights.
It is warmth and it is the sour-sweetness
of lemonade in a glass wet with condensation.
Summer is fireworks and barbecues
with your clean-cut suburban neighbors.
It is the sweltering heat
and the time of the greatest storms.

The tide rises with the moon and the crash
of the monstrous waves against the cliff sides
beat the rhythm of summer in the night as well as
the chirped songs of the crickets inland
where the grass merely trembles with the thought of wind.

This is summer:
The tempest hiding behind gentle breezes
carrying the sharp scent of sunscreen and
grass and upturned dirt.
It is watching the sky turn white with lightning
and it is the smell of ozone and the earth-shattering
cracks of thunder.
It is heat waves and wildfires
And lying at night with covers kicked back
sweating and contemplating
the endless Void.

The sky flashes white with lightning,
the light before the dark and the cold
and summer wind howls in the dead of the night,
bringing down the wrath of the gods of rain,
and thunder rumbles through gray clouds,
shadows in the night.
This is summer without the sun.