If summer slipped by in an unconscious moment,
I hope you were relaxing beneath the warming sun.
I hope you forsook park benches and vegged upon a verdant plot,
clutching till the last, a book that tents your delighted face.
Summer can so easily sneak by,
creeping up and over you, like a shadow o’er an arbitrary mound.
You could be Nunavut or Algeria, America or New Zealand;
What should the sun care?
It beams indifferently over all boundaries —
elemental or artificial in design.
So I hope you threw off your fears
and splayed out in the shade while the sun was high,
undeterred by contemptuous men who’d trample your felicity.
Secretly, they wish to do as you …
shedding their dark, restrictive coats and shiny Oxfords
to laze like a holstein, or ripening freestone peach,
wholly pregnant with the joys of Summer’s heat.
Even I admit to wishing for more moments of that kind;
but I know that as you took the chance —
laying harmoniously in the arms of this revolving world,
concerned with neither breath nor body,
only your unworldly imaginings —
we were, then, as one.