All of our summers are long ago
All of the photographs
Serve as mere guides to nostalgia
The pristine, bright red, sun umbrella
Set against the vibrant blue sky
It is a memory, but only for you
The words say something
Which only words may say
All else being lost, scattered
The four winds
They have risen, they have fallen
Their breath is of new life
All of our summers are ahead of us
All of the photographs
Have yet to be composed
