Late Summer

I can’t call you: it rained.
you, far off deep dearth space
my voice trailing
left in the birdless wire
washed through and leaking onto them
onto the honeysuckled road
where the freckle-braided girl drips
her sweet hummingbird water
onto the backfence-met boy.
quiet dawn cotton-dressed market run
denim dusted south field ride
piston-pluck, raised tongue
bee-stung lips and
arms full of promise.
he kisses her in apple quilted patterns
under dripping phone lines,
old love stolen in every drop.
No, I’ll wait for the rain change
summer thunder fade,
early morning secrets rust and
wet dew breath noonday dried.
I’ll call when that nectar harvest ends,
when those syrup taps are shut
and the coast is clear
of young lovers.Christine is a fiction writer and member of Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Writer’s Group. After living in the Rittenhouse Square area for several years, she moved to Delaware County, where she lives with her husband, daughter, one saintly cat and one very lucky fish. According to Poconos-raised Christine, the suburbs are definitely the weirdest place she’s ever lived.

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