SUMMER

I listen to the sounds of

                                      summer

and hear blades of grass growing
and leaves on the trees in motion with the breeze.

A choir soothes me to sleep this

                                      summer

a choir of rare mixture and purpose -
the mechanical certainty of a lawn mower and the survival calls of birds in the field.

The children are all outside this

                                        summer

Big Wheels clacking, irritably arousing those who doze within their own summer dreams,
baseballs breaking away from bats and thudding into gloves.

Teenagers rev their hotrod engines, it must be

                                        summer

the expressways jammed as if instinct drive them up north to hear the birds and
watch the water.
I turn on my bathtub, looking out my window into the field.

I dream of being 6 and 10 and 19, past

                                          summers

seemingly freer days of fun and youth, graduation, a precious time preserved only in
memory
before adulthood overtakes us and summers change.

I still swing on swings, ride the merry-go-round in the

                                          summer
and intake each moment its offerings and little pleasures with gusto.
Not 6 or 10 or 19 any more, knowing that they don't last forever -

                                          summers.