A Yellow Summer
The straw yellow of the dead grass
we lay in,
the sun-soaked yellow of our field –
dotted with sunflowers, daffodils, tulips.
The falling yellow-gold rays warmed our skin,
browned our bodies.
Occasionally, I’d glimpse a hint of yellow
in passing butterfly wings, and in the ringed torsos
of the buzzing bees.
The yellow roses –
yellow for friendship –
I gave them to a boy I dated,
an apology, a plea,
a selfish, yellow-bellied ploy for affection.
The yellow can of Boddingtons’s pub ale in his hand,
the liquid-amber yellow of my bottle of chardonnay,
an intermingling of yellows –
a kiss –
an intermingling of fears.
His yellow wallpaper –
the yellow summer I spent in it –
my lost identity.
copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews
