Accepting The Messy Parts Of Your Life
FOR THIS SUBLIME SUMMER NIGHT
Darryl Peters
A pink-red sun sulks behind
the west-blown smoke of burning British Columbia while
a choir of crickets is lost
somewhere in unobserved score,
singing beautiful chaos.
​
The conductor is huffy;
he’s stabbing a baton in
furious accusation,
calling measure eighty-three,
but he—snob, classically trained—
doesn’t understand the score.
​
The composer, though, cavorts
& smiles, smug & satisfied,
wandering the smoky streets,
& wondering how soon the
rains will come. Cherubs amuse
themselves with flashbulbs above
clouds holding biblical rain,
called by electricity
of new love’s first touch.
The lovers hear not the song—
though the crickets sing for them—
nor see the cherubs display—
though dazzling, wild and playful—
nor mind the first raindrops ‘gainst
the window, for they are lost
in slow touch & lazy kiss,
with bright eyes outshining their
sun’s sullen dip to make way
for this sublime summer night.