Every other day, when the clouds roll by,
leaving blue and sun and warmth,
I am reminded of all springs of the past.
I am reminded of tight shorts and braces,
ice cream trucks and parks,
sticky hands clinging to a swingset,
and honeysuckles on the way to school.
I am reminded of a spring during lockdown,
walking to the lake and poetry and movies,
staring out the wall of windows and thinking
of places I could have been.
When I soak in the sun and feel it on my arms,
I think back with longing, even for a moment,
and wonder if those selves would be satisfied
seeing me, as I am now.
Honeysuckles
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