Our own season

I come from the South,
where olive-skinned children
sing with rough voices
their love for the sun—
where even the stones are warm,
and sunset signals beginning.

You come from the North,
where snow blankets the voice of the aurora,
whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on

to create our own season. whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on
to create our own season.