A Splinter of Summer
It starts from the deep,
A twinge, a feeling
A slight tenderness.
Up it works, a reverse burrow,
That memory from summer
That day you spent cutting,
And chopping,
And weeding.
Sitting, be-suited,
Listening to discussion,
Not listening,
Focusing on that tenderness
Feeling that memory
That day.
Suddenly it is there
It reaches the surface,
One moment more and the edge will be free
That tiny edge
Barely perceptable
The thorn, that thorn,
That memory of summer
Is ready to be teased out
I should be listening
But I have a thorn
A real thorn
I brush it away and look up
Bemused faces look on
Expectantly
Like an unlistening pupil,
The silence of the missed question
That silence,
That pause for the answer
Which is a smile of a memory
A splinter of summer.
Ozhene
