Hunt for summer

“May is not far off.” The sky is yet grey, and once checked he turns his head back to her. “And then, we need them. Your little hands.”

“My hands, which I find no good?”

“Uh, I find them no good,” he rolled his eyes mimicking her.

“…small and mostly useless,” she stood her ground.

“Soft pink, with baby-like tiny fingers and nails,” he looked over her. “They look so innocent. So you can sneak up and catch the summer by the sun’s rays and the first blade of grass.”

“You really think, I can?”

He winked. “And then you have it all — the warmth, and the light, and the breath of wind just between your fingers, before anyone else. Who could ever say: this May I got a Summer in my hands, and I was sitting on the steps holding it tight, while you all were still walking in your city-grey Spring.”

April 19, 2019