At thirty-three I transformed into the sorceress of eternal summer.
It’s cliché to say a man broke the spell—that I couldn’t find the way
out of winter myself, but he was wildfire burning down
whatever icy walls and gates I had built around me.
Spring was so subtle, I didn’t feel the snow begin to thaw,
notice the buds take root and bloom until a canopy of poppies,
hollyhocks and roses surrounded me. I was deep into summer,
engulfed in thoughts of him, craving his breath on my neck—
his hands on my hips—his lips. I dreamt of blue heat licking my skin.
I was in his bed the night winter came in July,
reminding me how cold could bring disaster.
He became crisp like autumn mornings;
I wondered if my light and sultriness
could spread through my fingertips when I placed
them on his chest—melt the frost that was forming,
could keep snow season away for good.