Solstice (by Troy Armstrong)

 

The cottonwood snow falls softly in June

as Autumn’s golden harvest naps in neat nursery rows

The moist air is drinkably thick

My glass of lemonade is sweating

 

As I breathe in this midsummer moment,

the familiar smell of cedar discovers my nose and wanders my memories

releasing a flood of visions that saturate my soul

—

You’re sitting right next to me

The wicker bench leaves criss-crossed dimples in your legs

Your palms drip with nervous sweat, or is it the heat?

 

The clandestine rebellion of our encounter electrifies the air around us

My heart ignites as your fingers brush my wicker-patterned thigh

And it suddenly seems as though not enough mercury on earth

could register the heat radiating between us

 

As the dying sun buries himself in darkness

your eyes become the sky and—foolish as it may be—

all I want to do is chase their horizon

 

Prostrated under our cedar tree we stare into the night—

Where I see but a countless panoply of lonely stars

you see holes in a black canvas concealing heaven

—

Alone, I look out over the drifts of summer snow

and the endless salty sweat of my eyes dilutes my glass of lemonade

I suppose I was never meant to catch your horizon

but I never tired of trying

 

Our cedar still stands right where we left it

Its thin branches reaching skyward

poised to puncture the floor of heaven