These are the summer nights
that differ from my childhood:
there is thunder in the sky,
wine in her lap,
and a quiet in my neighbourhood.
But now, I think, I think,
(strangers pass, laughing, as we sit in silence)
time has moved forward
but the excitement borne
from the delight of home persists.
It’s the same as always:
I know the streets I walk,
cannot guess the weather,
loud conversations in familiar rooms
are variations of the same old talk.
While we sit here, content,
I am finally ready to miss my friends
because the tremble of my breathless laughter
and the steadiness of her oldest stories
remind me of the relief from our weekends.
These nights’ endings are set,
yet still, they hold moments we will not forget.
Recommendation: The Wind Begun to Rock the Grass by Emily Dickinson