Summer Is

Memory is the diary that we all carry with us. 

Oscar Wilde

Summer Is

By Elece Hollis

Summer is Crepe Myrtle pushing pink lace and sweet perfume,

Watermelon splitting open red with a luscious crack,

Corn ears––silk showing––waiting for eager hands to harvest,

Tomatoes ripening on the vine––juicy and sweet.

Summer is watching the wind make dancing leaf shadows,

Hummingbirds bickering at the feeders––cicadas thrumming,

Bumblebees hovering over honeysuckle vines,

Mailbox standing beside the dusty road––listing and thirsty.

Summer is children running splashing in the sprinkler,

Popsicles dripping on little fingers with wonderful stickiness,

Working in the hot sun and resting in the long evenings,

Chasing fireflies and capturing them in Mason jars.

Summer is sitting on the porch swing listening to hoot owls,

Bouquets of Queen Anne's Lace and Brown-eyed Susans,

Eating a late dinner at eight-thirty of fresh garden foods,

Sleeping on Grandma's screened in back porch.

Summer is forever.