Goodbye to the summer that never was

as the sun sets slowly

in evenings of fiery red, once again

(a sun for so long that has been occluded

by the crying clouds of rain).

The sun itself is love

or the joyousness of love

and the rain is rain;

the rain is whatever occludes the joyousness of love

or whatever makes love be only joylessness and pain.

 

True that in latter times we cuddled and we kissed

but in my heart love died alone, so many years before.

It rots, in tranquil quiet, in an unattended grave,

unmourned, not grieved for and is not missed.

The grave is overgrown, where nocturnal foxes burrow,

where the rats and maggots live

in the crying rain at sunset,

but I have no tears to add

or poignant words to give

and, if I grieved at all,

I grieved that it ever lived.

 

The leaves are lying sodden on the path outside my house

shaking the doormat to relieve it of the mud at the end of a day

the rain rains gentle then dissipates

the sun shows up then sinks

this is not the close, but only the beginning of play.

There is new year and there is Christmas,

I have always fallen in between

I have always been more pancake day

and always halloween.

The leaves are lying sodden on the path outside my house,

like they were in the summer that never was.