When you arrive
summer will blow in my windows
dressed in its carnation garments,
trailing straw.
And that secret worm will shrink
before your luminous gaze
and fall from love's apple
into the dark.
You are the little sister
of those wild spices
that have grown upon the dry hills
of Provence since Roman times:
thyme, oregano, lavender,
to perfume your hair by day,
the smoke of sage wood fires
soaking into your skin
by night.
I swear,
if you should write a poem
the paper itself
would reek of summer.