The Summer Sun
Nothing that I may say
in any dream
in any work of charm
in any toss of love,
in any way,
Darling, could tell you,
how I love you.
They say
as the day for its existence
must love the sun, as the sun must lean
its arms upon the plain, as the rain
must fall and fall forever on the waves,
merging its violet in the glistening flood,
in such a way, it might be said, I love.
But it’s not that way.
It’s the look of you and the breath
and touch of you, your laughter,
your eyes like suddenly remembered stars
—of a night that gave its music to the leaves,
of a moon braiding its ringlets in the waves,
of a whirr of wings where the dawn had been;
and we had made a summer of the sun.