when i was seven and thought of summertime,
it was sprinting through thriving grass, ankle-high,
surrounded by the night sky, dim lights, and the fire’s tangerine glow,
running carelessly with sparklers and our struggling fireflies.
i’m not yet old,
but summer touches me differently now,
with grass turned yellow, burnt under the sun’s anger,
our sweat beaded palms we can’t hold,
finding refuge in sweet tea,
forged from the same sun we needed relief from
enriched by a peaches fuzz and bright lemons:
a honeyed tango on our tongues.
but the end of the jar is always bitter,
where the rotten fruit sank.
summer reminds me of peach tea,
in its beginning, a sweet relief
to winter’s rigid bones,
but by the end
we have red hot skin and burning eyes
and sweet turns to bitter.
the mattress is dusty
and there are rips where your feet lie
and sweat stains and
it’s acquired a funky smell
but you don’t want a new bed.
this bed holds dreams and tears
and many nights,
both wide awake and sound asleep.
dawn leaves us
and the dogs start barking at seven
in their endless howl and call:
we called these the dog days
heat turns the yellowing grass
into a windswept meadow
and pitch black asphalt learns to
wave, seems to crash to shore
the spring’s birth of leaves and love
gave us tomatoes of green
they never did my mother much good
except trips to the grocery store and lessons of patience
the hose broke mid-July
red tomatoes in our salad were short-lived
we were left with leaves at mortality’s end
and sun-dried fruit, like the cracked dirt
what never met my mother’s mind
was that nurtured soil
amongst water deprived destruction
bared the fruits of a thriving September harvest.