When the cold dusk of February descends,
I like drink limoncello from a champagne glass.
I try to balance my mind somewhere between warm, slow, syrupy summer and a celebration.
I distract myself to twilight gardens that trickled with laughter and curls
when life was inevitably free and open and simmering.
The slight chill runs through me while the tart plays on my tastebuds
My tongue licks my lips, remembering a time before they knew yours.
Before summer fizzled and the garden wilted.
And before my mind moves to the ice of winter, I pour myself more summer.
Writing Space. 