it’s not my feet that digs

into the sand

but the sand embracing me

in the only point of contact that we have


had I been lying down

it would grasp at my skin

from my ankle to my nape

and hold me in place



but I’m standing

shifting my weight to the beat

of the music playing

in the distance


holding my glass of rum coke,

the droplets forming outside

coats my hand in the cold caress

that echoes the lightness

in my heart


the sound of the ocean crashing

into the beach

and the rustle of the trees

with every passing breeze


and He is there, reading a book

by Douglas Coupland,

and She is there, checking her messages

on her phone,

and the Rest are doing their own thing

and the smiles betray

the state of their souls


no one’s guard is up right now


if the sun were to set right at this very moment

they’d all burst into tears,

I’m sure of it,

I know I would too


and it’s the middle of November

and somewhere in the world,

someone is wrapping himself

in a blanket as the cold winter air

seeks to violate his body

with sharp, icy kisses


but, here, the sun is shining bright


summer is not just a season,

it’s a state of mind;

it is the farthest distance

from the things that must be done now

and the worries that pile up

into stacks of paper that do not fly away,

even in the middle of a hurricane


summer is anywhere that I am

and He is and She is and the rest of Them;

it is any moment

when I don’t care what is waiting

or what is coming next

and what has happened before


it’s not some day marked down in the calendar

encircled red

but marked in a moment

only recognised by the heart


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