I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the four seasons of the year.
And you welcome love from another
Whose noble moods are not as mine.
I have no pretentious weight of age,
Nor easy spring breeze to give you.
I am all monsoons and thunderstorms,
Hot wind, hard gusts, cold rain.
I am not any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of spring.
So love me year round as you loved
Me on the bed where summer
Rose to meet our naked skin,
Sticky from sweat and making love.
But spring is here, in its budding silence,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may rise refreshed with
The call of the sea gull and
Scent of the rose, and
The weight of his arms upon your
Hips and breasts.
Will you come back to me, as summer comes?Or softer yet
As it ends and the death of leaves
Begins again; to feel the crunch of
Them upon your back on an
Indian summer day in a clearing...
Or will you at that sweetest of times
Choose to bask your naked flesh
Upon other shores, other climes?