The ache of summer carries the
Scent of boxwood in heated repose,
The haze of afternoons before thunder.
Each August, my mind returns to
The bricks and mortar of youth,
The locust-pitched rooflines of campus,
Where ambition stood erect
As colonnades in oaken sunlight.
We spend decades shaping the
Plywood annex of all that comes next.
It takes immoderate courage to wade
The gathering fluorescent days, and
We solder meanings with our English
Major remnants and wait
For the form, the vision,
The name of what we were to be.
David Loope lives and works in Virginia. His poems have appeared in Wayfarer and DeadMule.
