there were times of fulsome summers,
bright warmth along the beaches
where cicadas sang in the ever-heat
and our hands were slick in nearness
walking side by side at highnoon;
and should we have burst into flame
at the ferocity of those burning days
we would continue as earth-bound comets
blinding, bright, beings of phosphorous,
our image unified and carved into every eye,
welded ever as one love with two hearts
beating in singular, sympathetic sychronicity;

and even when the clouds rolled in,
tall pillars from off the eastern seas
we would continue in the falling rain
knowing its necessity for a greener growth,
spurred on by a certain sunlit hope,
and an endless, joyous memory of light
casting remembrance as rainbow reflections,
reminders that our voices soar in chorus
carried higher in the updraft of one-another