by Chris Forhan

Summer strode slowly in clownish festoonery, forgiving everything. 

Blessed was the fruit of its womb:  slumbering bees, blossoms’ furious purple effusions,
clouds scattered like napkins late of lips moist with cream and champagne.

Chiffon was a word heard often then.

Oh, to live like that again, operatically bored with the reckless long business of becoming.

To loll on a ridge above the jostling gondolas,
to sprawl in a field amid the ruins of lunch, the crumbs and rinds,
to be slaked by a final swallow of wine and feel safely ravaged and awry,

to joy in the horses’ forelocks, beribboned with blooms of sweet everlasting—
a distraction from the black, inapt cast of their eyes,

that sequestered look, as of something they’ve seen and not forgotten yet.

(Originally published in Slate)

“Oh Blessed Season” by Chris Forhan appears in the Silver Birch Press SUMMER ANTHOLOGY, a 220-page collection of poetry and prose, available at