It is a cold end to August,
but the warmth comes out
again in September.
I walk through a field of sunflowers,
little faces dried from tears:
seeds hardening from the left,
petals blooming from the right.
I sit with the sunflowers. I look for the sun.
There isn’t much to do
clinging to a rock for nine days straight,
staring at the Sun who chases the river.
He chases the forest, chases the stars,
one side of the heavens to the other.
My hot cheeks beg to be drowned
in a mountain lake
when he burns for days, and chases us.
But when the clouds roll,
when he hides a hemisphere away,
the burns on our lips sting
Though the morning dew goes frosty,
and winter starts singing from the hills,
we fight for fire,
growing taller, getting dryer.
The heliotropes lie fragrant
beneath my feet,
and my sunburn grows new skin and freckles
while the sunflowers drop their seeds,
little prayers in hard shells.
It is ending, this warm dream,
dying in my hands.
Snow will come soon
to muffle the harvest
and blanket the trees
while He is far away,
loving a further summer,
and unable to burn.