The Language of Rain

2-9-21

They're right, summer is a light,
the kind that abandons
the bulbs hung low on the outskirts of
those factories, these eyes
July burns on tongues like a fire,
you think it's yours
standing too close to the windows
you undo the frames of winter from your doors
tell me when flowers ever came in spring
like you hadn't left scents in my pockets while
you talked of the cold stale sky,
and now I lie here wondering
how many lilac skies I have cared enough to witness
I'm unaware if the sky's in colours today,
which flowers will have to leave, do the leaves
in our backyards ever turn yellow?
If they do, I'd remember to remember