summer is late in my heart

HERE

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.

Words plucked out of the air   

some forty years ago

when I was wild with love   

and torn almost in two

scatter like leaves this night   

of whistling wind and rain.   

It is my heart that’s late,

it is my song that’s flown.   

Outdoors all afternoon

under a gunmetal sky

staking my garden down,

I kneeled to the crickets trilling   

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells;   

and like a child again

marveled to hear so clear   

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.   

What makes the engine go?   

Desire, desire, desire.

The longing for the dance   

stirs in the buried life.

One season only,

                        and it’s done.

So let the battered old willow

thrash against the windowpanes   

and the house timbers creak.   

Darling, do you remember

the man you married? Touch me,   

remind me who I am.

-stanley kunitz