Lit Mag

Little Summer

Little Summer
My brother and I would waste away 
Our summer days,
Kicking our socks off
And lying back
On creaky wicker rocking chairs 
Draining the color from rocket popsicles
Until our lips were stained with purple. 
“Go outside!” My mother would say, 
And resigned, we would go
Out into the great wild world
Of one dead end road
And one babbling brook
And one towering oak, crying out with the many voices of cicadas
Ablaze in the stifling summer sun. 
Her warm breeze carried scents 
Of basketball rubber, 
Onion grass, 
Black tops baking in the heat,
Orange peels and lemonade on the kitchen counter. 
A time when ankles were red and scabbed from razor scooters,
And white sneakers kicked up rust colored dust on the baseball diamond. 
I parade my embroidered pockets down the sidewalk, 
Now dyed green from blades of grass,
I don my regal crown of daisy chains,
Plucked from a wildflower garden.
A time when imagination overflowed
Like the golden fountains of honeysuckle dew
Somewhere on the edge of what is real
And what is just a dream. 

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