Then came that day at Summer’s mid;
the Sun a bitter pill
to clouds that spoke with silver tongues
but kept loud voices still.
I dream’t that day back in the Fall
while spewing fear-filled sweat
and kicking silk from icy feet;
a dance I’ll not forget.
Foul clock that ticked the minutes past
to end a love so soon
had robbed the taste from ice-cream snow
and bloodied April’s moon.
So ends that day at Summer’s mid
in haunting disarray.
Now love and life can beg no more
for all that now remains.
© 2013 Stephen Boothe