Twenty Third Summer

The first summer was brute.
I soared from from green into drought yellow of the desert, trembling like a kindling I collected as a kid.
“Everything is dying”, I said.
“It all comes back”, you answered.
And then it did.

Then the Nemesis fell, blending the valley, the sky and my finger bones in the color of the wet rice.
“I am not home”, I said.
“This is home.”, you answered.
Somehow it became.

Now, good twenty three summers later, this fever is my only home. Unlike every other year, I do not wish for winter.