The Storm, the Girl, and the Too-Cold Summer Night

I know this place.
I have been here before...

There, over that field,
a boy ran from a thunderstorm,
eyes blurred by fear
and wet and the dire wind;
cut corn stalks
bit at shins and ankles,
and a white scream tore open
the sky,
punctuating his respite from
immortality.

There, in that yard,
the boy talked to a girl through the dark,
while cicadas sang
for inattentive stars,
on a too-cold summer night,
on a dew-damp wooden bench,
secure that nothing so rude as the dawn
could ever disturb them.

It's all gone now.
The field and the yard remain,
but what do they matter?
Where is the storm, and the girl,
and the too-cold summer night?
I meant to come home,
but instead have become one,
hosting these specters and smiles
in the world that I keep.