Will summer never come?
Will the birds never sing their
Songs of romance and pain and joy?

Will iris not send shoots,
pregnant with flower, pushed upwards through the night sky
in promise of light and bloom?

Will the sun never shine?
No longer share warmth
Because it’s grown so cold,
Turned away with tears.

Will the grass not grow
To soften the barefoot toes
Of children who no longer
Laugh and play?

Will the brooks and streams
No longer linger and lick and flow
Over mountains and meadows so low?

Will the thunder never crash
And lightening fail to flash,
No more cleansing of my soul?

Will all this cease now
That your voice no longer speaks,
Sounds, no longer your ears can hear?

My kisses left unfelt
upon your lips and brow
Will summer never come?

— Ronda Miller lives in Lawrence.