a summer - a poem

there is now no summer
like the ones spent in the apple orchard
of the neighbor's yard, plucking fruit
from the succulent trees and vines
running through the greenery and brush
eating blueberries and wild strawberries
our clothing torn by the brambles
skin opened under scrapes and cuts
blood seeping like sweet water through the knees

...
and later in the fire-flied night, staring
at Orion, wandering to the Northern Star
finding the big dipper and beholding the milky way
it all revolving about some invisible axis
there before our eyes
...

and the taste of honeysuckle and persimmon
the sugar sweet and sour pucker of the wild fruit
taken too early, forever etched in the mind
...

there is now no summer
as the winter approaches no matter the season
with only the brisk fall at best, blasts of hope and promise
only keeping the body moving forward
where there once was technicolor, now only grayscale exists
with small glimpses of color
seeping through the edges...