Summer Hues

The sun doesn't quite hit my window in the afternoon.

Instead, it rests its powerful rays on the wall beside it.

The cream paint turns bright yellow

on the late hours of summer afternoons.

I miss the cicadas and their song.

The hue of their love is warm and soft.

It brings memories of long, lost melodies.

In sixteen years, I will hear it once more.

My hair, grayer than now;

my soul, a bit brighter, I hope;

my love, a memory or a melody I hum.

The yellow, still on the wall beside my window,

tempting me to step out.