saltwater stems

summertime, fast on its feet
as it dances out east,
lying down in the Atlantic for a brief reprieve
before stretching itself forward
into the auburn orchard of fall,
-- of awe,
-- of the profoundly romantic,
of an afterglow so subtle
and so slow
until suddenly, steam is rising
from building tops like a great, big
tobacco pipe being smoked in the distance
and sure as ever,
winter is here
to stake its claim and drive us inward;
to tap on our windows in the deaf nature of the night and
ask us: who is home?
And we answer
as potted seeds of spring
unfurling ourselves
to saltwater stems,
ever-upward from the dampness
and the darkness
toward the place there may be light.