Summer

The sunlight is so heavy.

I lie back into it like its a hammock,

and it cradles me in its invisible gossamer web.

Floating there in the summer sunshine,

suspended above the dewy grass

of my grandparents' lakefront yard,

I can smell the honeysuckle so thick

I want to eat the whole garden.

But I surrender and sink into the deep summer green

and let petals of crepe myrtle

fall from the sky to my sun-warmed face,

each petal dancing down to my eyes

like a flamenco dancer,

spinning quietly, seductively.

One petal hits my lips and makes me shiver.

I hesitate to remove the fragile flower,

drinking in the breath around it,

sipping ecstasy in the thick humidity.

But then, I can almost hear the jingle of my mother's car keys

shaking me from my adolescent sundream.

I wake to run and clamber into the station wagon

to make a grocery store run,

for summer attention spans

are never as long

as the sunny

days.

For WML ~ October 15, 2001