Again, the last day of spring.
I care no other words to sing.
Writing on you while you’re still there.
Loving on you though you can’t share.
This thing, I do to stay alive—
a brace of morning air, not contrived.
Again, the first day of summer.
Days and nights feign warmer.
Writing on you, letters to flesh,
ink to soul somehow to mesh.
Just over the past horizon, there—
reachable still, I swear.
by S.A. Bort / 23 June 2013
photo by S.A. Bort / 22 June 2013