For the dverse prompt.
Perhaps it was the endless end-of-winter rain,
the erratic sun, rarely seen, always veiled,
that started the longing.
Perhaps it’s just time,
the memories piled so deep,
growing so light and thin,
that it is time for some to rise
and be remembered.
I think of going back to those summers,
when the sand burned barefoot soles,
and the beach emptied at eleven for lunch and siesta.
Cicada-song and pine cones clattering
onto the balcony and learning to break
open the nuts like little squirrels.
Pine smelled sweet and the lunchtime soup
with a celery we couldn’t grow at home,
and through the shaded windows soft voices called
always ending on a trill of laughter.
It’s tempting to go back into the sun
and the pines sparkling with sea
and a blue that exists nowhere else,
to be cradled in that musical tongue again.
But going back is never an option,
and places that exist in the past
are coated in graffiti now,
sleeping beneath today’s indifference.