Summer Kiss Poem by Barry Middleton

No blossom compares
with a kiss in summer.

Springtime is hope,
but infant, wistful days
grow pale in the heat
of a blue August sky.

The touch of your skin,
golden leaves dripping
in the sacred hot rain,
are a plea and a prelude
to the birth of memory.

No blossom compares
with a kiss in summer,
when the season turns
to fever, and white wind
aches for the comfort
of sky fire and thunder,
before the storm passes.