God has taken from us the sun,
which loving was too much like firefly July,
watching our brother kiss the girl
we were too little to love
but loved!
with cloying loyalty anyway.
A name in a notebook
and the little electric leavings
of her path across our sky.
But must we just go sunless sad,
wearing moods like wet vestments
at a mirthless service?
No!
We kick wet leaves
on the cooling coals of long November
and hoist such a hard, proud December
that our summerlost girl
- hand still in rival’s hand -
turns in a wistful flourish
to look back once upon us
and wish that she
were half so free
as we.
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