Ira Joel Haber, The One with the Flowers
Taste of Summer
Susan Darlington
She throws back her head,
thrusts out her tongue
and closes her eyes
to savour the snowflake
that melts there.
A connoisseur, she says
it tastes of summer.
That it was formed
from rain that fell
in upland lavender fields,
that the water evaporated
in the high noon sun,
rose into a cloud,
and waited until this moment
to crystalise here, just for her.
I roll a flake around my mouth,
tell her I can taste nothing.
She throws back her head,
laughs until I see snowdrops
in the hollow of her throat.
Susan Darlington
She throws back her head,
thrusts out her tongue
and closes her eyes
to savour the snowflake
that melts there.
A connoisseur, she says
it tastes of summer.
That it was formed
from rain that fell
in upland lavender fields,
that the water evaporated
in the high noon sun,
rose into a cloud,
and waited until this moment
to crystalise here, just for her.
I roll a flake around my mouth,
tell her I can taste nothing.
She throws back her head,
laughs until I see snowdrops
in the hollow of her throat.