this summer (also: remembering daffodils)

to what will i compare the days of this summer?

i will think of them as strawberries, out in the field, some ripe and juicy, some slightly white and hard, some dark and sour, some sweet to an impossible degree. and there will be some that have been in the sun for too long, or have been touched by rain or slugs, some that will have this tint of grey upon them, that smell of unripe wine, of things gone beyond correction or return.

strawberries and there will be days in this summer, when my hands are red with the blood of the strawberries of memory and re-cognition, days imbued with awareness of the singularity of this moment, days fragrant with jasmine, and linden, and lilac, and drying hay, and a thousand, million moments that can happen only now, only here.

but what will i do with the strawberry days of this summer? i will extract their blood, their fragrance, and turn them into cider: slowly, gradually, distilling their essence into something to warm me up in the absence of the sun.
some cider that will be. sweet, and bitter, red and green, sparkling and tantalising the senses into a different world.

yes, i will compare the days of this summer to strawberries.

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