I am summer giddy drunk,
bumbling like bees on tides of clover,
the frothy green, the urgent sun
fill my asthmatic lungs like balm
and I could spend my life upon the grass,
daydreaming in ink filled pages.
Summer–the time I could escape those rages,
and I climbed the backyard trees while he got drunk
and peered down at the green oceans of grass,
waiting for it to be over.
I perched on the thick, grey branches, calm
among the leaves and dappled with sun.
Every moment that I have is a moment that I’ve won.
I filled the chambers of my heart with words from better sages,
and books, all books, have been my psalms.
I kept myself language drunk
and read them, read them all, over and over,
hidden in the treetops or splayed across the grass.
Summer transforms me into glass,
an alchemy of clover foam and drizzled sun,
until I am bright overexposure
and the ink becomes the pages
and I become the sun and branches and tree trunk
rooted in the giddy calm.
I have been trying to write a sestina for DAYS. And I finally got something that was working, and, well, it’s quite a few stanzas, so this is another one that I’m going to have to break up over a couple of days. I have two stanzas left and the tercet, so I should get that done tomorrow. And if I remember, I’ll make a post of both days together so that the whole sestina can be read intact. =)