Summer with Pinus Halepensis and Photons
It took the ages of my two great-grandparents for them to reach their twisted girth.
Past June,
torridity presses them down into sand,
salt and wind hold their growth in check.
Today, sea murmurs embrace shivers from raindrops
surprising bathers who run to cover their sun-screened bodies.
Soon a fiery sun reappears roasting
adolescents’ chestnut hair,
children’s laughter pushes open the door of summer.
Everyone is invited into this wall-less abode,
little girls play princess, ruling from sand-castles,
youngsters dance to the sound of wind and love songs,
older women seek the shade of trees
cooling themselves with fans under an umbrella of pines.
Luminosity has tired the birds,
which remain silent
until evening takes its lizard-lazy place,
and their trills join the sound of kisses.
Unlike the old trees
life, in the bright photons which orchestrated the party,
ebbs fast.
By dusk millions weaken,
their sparks no longer blind us,
instead, their soft light melts the shores of hearts.
As the night invades the beach
a few remaining photons drag themselves West.
Facing the inscrutable altar of the sea
they kneel,
praying for the return of their god
to grant them resurrection.
Out of the dark, my mother steps under a pale half moon
holding a colorful towel,
tells us it’s time to return home,
our other home.
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