After the rain, the sun
on grass and lane,
aromas that could belong
only to summer.
Sometimes, in later months,
we would pretend December’s rain
was July’s as we gazed
through steam-beaded glass,
the crackling fire behind us,
saying little, hardly need of words.
We would imagine we smelled the grass,
anointed with the gentle summer spray,
its beneficent caress,
so light of touch,
like a lover’s fingertips
brushing cherished flesh.
The crackling fire before us now,
we sit, say little, so few words to say,
each recalling how, long ago,
we could turn winter into summer.
Copyright © Andrew John