Imagine a Summer Equinox

            A Golden Shovel after Elizabeth Barrett Browning

We used to laugh that summer is earth’s
way of apologizing for the times we crammed
ourselves into heated lobbies and school rooms with
enough scarves wrapped around you could reach heaven

if you strung them all together, end to edge, and
how we glued our tongues to frozen poles, regretting every
neuron caught in fateful separation. It wasn’t common,
but sometimes grandpa would make croque-en-bush

with caramel drizzle, and he’d set the hearthstones afire
before trusting us to tend the smouldering logs with
a sooty iron poker, kind of like the way God
gave us words knowing they can bite and blister, but

took the gamble anyway. The callous chill of winter only
lasted as long as a dentist would pulling all your teeth, if he
stopped to take a nap between every molar. I’m not sure who
wanted the seasons to change most—I think everyone sees

the sun’s gift of thawing as fulfillment of a wish. It takes
enduring a winter to welcome its rosy release, when off
come gloves, knitted hats, and billowy wool jackets; it’s all his-
tory. Then we were light as fountain grass, suddenly our shoes

felt weightless, and we barreled like restless Icarus toward the
summer sky. We used to laugh that winter is earth’s way of rest-
ing from our vital force, unable to sustain the impact. We would sit,
our feet twitching beneath us, patient only to say grace ‘round

the table and scarf down grandpa’s tomato sandwiches—it
was no use holding songbirds in wicker cages. Years elapsed and
we always made sure when sunny weather came to pluck
and savor warm handfuls of beach plums and blackberries.

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