Summer Song
They rise from the soil
Like rusted prayers,
Cracked shells splitting open
To let the dark sing—
And somehow,
The sound reminds me of you.
Their wings—
Thin as old cathedral glass,
Tremble with longing,
Their hum a strange, trembling vow
To keep searching
For whatever warmth
First called them back to life.
At dusk they cling
To black bark spines,
Their bodies quivering
As if waiting for a lover’s touch
That never comes.
A chorus of tiny revenants,
Aching toward the moon,
Calling out
For something gentle enough
To hold their trembling noise.
Their song is not a warning—
It is an invitation.
A plea.
A soft, desperate reaching,
Like the breath you take
Right before confessing
You love someone
You shouldn’t.
And when the night grows thick,
Their voices rise
In wild, burning harmony,
As if every throat
Is a lantern lit with longing.
They scream for the moon—
But I hear your name
In every shiver of their cry.
Sometimes,
When their hum slips beneath my skin,
I swear it whispers:
You, too, were made
To ache for someone like a second summer,
To shed your old self
Just to draw closer
To the one who calls you back
From the dark.
