To The Room Where We First Met Poem by Summer Shaw

Back, back, back
through the seasons
to you in my arms and eyes.

On past
The fires of summers so hot
Brains lose their functions to think

Through even
The gates of springs
That tend to fling everything into motion

Further still
Through the winters' smell of icy sleet
And wet pavements that soften the sounds of hurry

Backwards, yes
floating on a crisp leaf
leaving the summers for autumns of golden colors

To that one day in bed with you
in my first apartment that smelled like curry
the one with that awful brown carpet and angry roommate
where I bought my first set of paints and set out to find myself

I loved you first there
in that room where you took my soul
and indoctrinated it with jazz instead of religion
just so I could see myself naked and dancing for the first time free.