we've created summer in these lines,
in the stanzas of our minds, and sun
warms the pages of worn-out poetry
notebooks, crisping the words entirely
until they curl and die, ready for burial
in a paragraph of posies, in the thick
diction of ourselves, and of others,
many combined to design this array
of colors and thought, and seasons,
pink and green and gold and white,
but mostly green, that pop of life
residing in the pretty enjambments
of our free verse poems, reminding
us all why we write: to invent new
forms of the phases we know so well.