Older

After the rain, the sun on grass and lane, delivering faceward 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.