Summer’s Dust

I bend and sift it through my fingers

And watch the wind dissolve

Those glazed hazy afternoons,

Shattered bits,

That fell like rain when clouds swept near

And filled the sky.

In those late hours of opiate sun,

When leaves burn brown and curl

And break from brittle twigs

To lie beneath shallow snows,

That melt before they cool these tears,

Footsteps shuffle by,

Where once they strolled and paused.

Gloved hands hide frozen fingers

That touch no more in passing.

Those blooming flowers, decayed and we — are dead.

Yet after snows come bud and spring,

Will there be no spring this year?