Down the Cellar This Morning

Suddenly,

without warning,

without precedent

or prelude,

On a dreary January morning,

in the grey

and lingering damp,

It happened

that Summer

startled me—

quite unannounced

and unexpected.

It shocked me,

there in the cellar,

sifting through

cobwebs,

extension cords,

milk crates,

and mesh bags of walnuts—

the implements

and incomplete aspirations

of Saturdays past.

It came from

the underside of

the weed wacker shield,

that whiff,

that aroma,

that unmistakable 

association:

Old grass.

Dry and stale,

pungent,

sour,

but Summer all the same.

It broke upon my senses

like a flash of summer lightning,

burst into my mind’s eye

with the brilliance

of a summer sun.

It rent the chill

of my bleak mid-winter

with the scorch

and sweat

of an August afternoon. 

And then,

just as suddenly,

as terminably

as the landscape

shutters in darkness

after the bolt’s brilliant burst,

It was gone.

January 16, 2021

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