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Tell me the day,
Your voice: echoed calls
To draw the fetch of sickled fields
And the time of old, warm winds
Cast in cobbled cicada song.
Tell me the story,
Your fingers: places on point,
Gesturing along hot, dry contours
Deft as a shining leaf.
Tell me the place,
Window to a long passed storm,
Etching the ways of things,
On cracked pane and smooth brow.
Oh, tell me the summer,
Long eyes, saddened tinge,
Or softened childhood mirror,
I never remembered
Quite like this.
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