again

You know I think it just struck me I was sitting here reading summer poems tasting raspberry popsicles on my tongue but looking out the window,

 it's snowing out 

and the trees and stone wall and everything,

has a little white, a little softer all over it and I was thinking 

how close summer is 

was 

will be again. 

We'll live our lives this way, writing in notebooks that will end up in forgotten corners about ice creams soaked in sunshine tasting like laughter and I think 

we're doing it more for ourselves, not for the granddaughters who might read our words someday and 

wonder. 

We'll write about the snow dustings and the rain falls and the trees that grew, and the birds and the sheep and life and death and 

it will keep happening. 

Because I'm sitting here writing thinking about snow sandwiched between last (trip to the ice cream shop, last cliff jump into the river, last time my bare feet stepped in grass that hadn't been mown in ages) summer and next (ice cream cone river jump grass) summer. 

and it will be that way forever, always here between 

then and 

                                                                 now thinking about the taste of ice whether it's to cool you down or falling from the sky 

and life goes on snow falls and melts leaves grow and fall and then snow falls again and it has happened and is happening and will happen and

it will 

always have happened. I don't quite know what I'm trying to tell you, but I think there's comfort in this cycle, and knowing 

it will snow again, and 

it will grow again and again, and we'll be here, till we're not, and as long as we are, 

it will snow again.