The summer is anything but warm
a rebellion of leaves decorate the lawn
the wind carrying them perversely
to the spot where I hide
throwing them this way and that
there is a beautiful haste to it all
a quickening in one direction and the next
a need to be some place.
I sit against the old oak tree
feeling ice against my back
a show of leaves is all I have
the wind the only one to take my hand.
There is a noise in the kitchen
a scurrying of pots and pans
a fireplace being turned on
children jostling for the attention of mum and dad
I wonder if they’ve found it
the spot where I was last
a closet in the shadows
in the attic, a long ways back.
I left a flaming haired doll
with a cheshire grin and pale blue dress
in the cobwebs of the closet
it sits in the shadows now
awaiting my return
but I won’t go back.
Is it always this cold in the summer?
an insincere warm breeze
wraps a cool blanket around me
death is a shadow on summer baby
atleast that’s what they tell me.