Summer Pink


White estival sun
singes to my skin-thin
a crimson tinge
reminiscent the scorch
of (your) scorn
like a pervasive haze
hot and brazen-faced
and at this point, I wince
indignant and disappointed
(in myself) once more
and squint my abraded eyes
to fade the glowering glint
of a simmering summer
pique to pink

And into the embowering swathe
of a woven hammock asway
I repine, supine, in the shade
my maudlin mind prescinds
adrift on errant winds
flowering scented–
ascendent and falling
with the stridulant calling
of rhapsodic cicada
into the susurrous treetops
to drop
all that I’ve let best me
and beset me from within
to never burn
in this temperament

by Jason Weaver


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