Summer isn't what it was before

Summer isn’t what it was before

This summer bends around last summer’s end,

awake from cold slumber of winter’s death.

Leaves bloom to light, the sun’s yellow a friend;

sunflowers blossom at spring’s dying breath.

Freckled arms wide, by the old pond we spun

while warmth seeped through Mother’s open front door.

Now she secretes us from the burning sun;

now summer’s not what it once was before.

Leaves turn yellow and our skin turns to red;

the mirror a pond of our necks’ sweat flecks.

Fields wither in windows beside our bed;

the pond a mirror of our sagging necks.

The summer’s end becomes a pantomime;

the summer wends around the bend of time.