Summer always forgot to turn her air conditioner on,
The weight of hot breaths on our backs.
Stop, it’s here, you said,
Pointing to the sun dial.
That compass of time passing, just sitting there
Like a neighbor two houses down from the art gallery.
We took pictures with this altar de la sol,
And, my love, you never gleamed brighter.
You’d belong in the garden, you said.
Only they were red and white petunias
Not the lilies we’re both fond of.
I would never blossom when the leaves fell, your favorite time.
But my blue you said with birdsong stuck in your hair,
Sunbeams hanging about my neck, but my blue
I would marry you for your poetry, not just your beauty.