It’s a rare season which with it does not bring rain
with which it does not flood gutters full of leaves or sand
and wash away all the memories captured in wet whirlpool rainbows
cast by oil and the sun

I’ve seen my face distorted in water
in tears
in rain of coming fall
or spring
and only seen it true in the palms of my hands
as they bled wet on the steering wheel
as I pulled from the gravelpath entrance to her house

And have only seen it again reflected off new springlake water ripples
seen from a lazy Sunday afternoon rooftop, jazz and eyes closed
with birds
and memories of 6 years unknown
but remembered in the feel of hands on feet
the smell of ginseng cigarettes
$4 a pack
the taste of garlic still in your mouth from the night before
and the night’s sleep you’ve just taken in the middle of the afternoon