The Four Seasons: Iambic Tetrameter
Summer: The Starry Night
I hear the breeze sing with the stars
weaving a patchwork melody
of grounded things learning to fly.
Leave it behind; all this, the wind
promises, a secret whisper
of a lover; her boyfriend sighs.
A romantic chandelier;
Lit above to set this mood of
serenity, with cheeks alight;
I am spectator to this dance,
voyeuristic misintentions,
head bent to hear this lullaby.
My sight, lost, but never found; a
dream, never sought to see again;
Wind's gentle whispers, playfully
teasing, coaxing me to watch blind.
A hero always peeks, they say,
I fancy myself a lady.
I do not watch; I can not, but
here upon this curve I may perch.
Intrusive, though in moments of
weakness I welcome myself, as
a bird appointed to oversee
exquisite sights that it should not.
Yet here I am, curled around
the door as does a blushing bride.
As such do all chaste flowers do,
blooming by this morning dew, as
I judge this quiet summer night,
and here I wish that I had sight.