Auntie Poem by Vassilis Christakis

Eternal spring how dear and boggling can you be. You come again like an auntie with a cherry pie. And again and again every year.
And we have to rejoice. And revel and sing. How tiresome to have to be happy.
If you arrived in the midst of winter a stranger you would be. And if in the midst of summer you would go unnoticed.
But you come when you have to. Like the auntie that comes out when the cold goes away. You are strange in dress like her. A bit too floral.
And you carry with you those rites of rebirth. Those songs and those scents. And we quiver and shiver and get turned upside down. Do you think we want that, auntie?
Let us be. Let us cook a stew. And not your cheerful barbecues.
Some years you are just too much. But we love you still. We just can't be as jovial as you are.
Because we had to go out at winter. And face the cold. And the freeze. And you know what, auntie?
We actually liked it's razor-thin splendid pain on our faces.
It made us feel like men again. And you don't want that for us auntie. You like us to stay childish and pick cherries.
But we have grown up auntie. We are almost half way...
Auntie, we bid you now farewell, the pie was bitter sweet, the cherries somewhat early picked. I know you want to stay. But did you bring light clothes?
Now summer is near and we are off. To a far-away land. That of midsummer dreams.
You reproach us. Sun-burned you call us. I would prefer if you have called us star-burned.
You reprimand us for longing the sea. Your floral dress cannot enter it. You need white and linen for summer. And you didn't bring that with you.
We are now close to be mad at you. You keep us bound in green and grass when we are now ready for the prairies of the sea. We need to sail off.
Our substance, our countenance is made of salty water. We put our heads into the sand and it takes our shape. And we take hers.
And the waves rush to erase the trace. Lest we stay there forever. Engraved in sand and salt.
As the sun goes, night-flowers take his place. To enrapture our oblivion. Of all things mortal. Of all things sane.
In the still of the dark, we unravel our languid desires. We bathe in the pleasure they offer. Exhaustion comes with the sounds of the day's rise.
We look at the mirror. We see the face of a watermelon. Red with freckles. And smiling wide.