Apr 5, 2021
I
The last
ice cold glass of
bliss I ever tasted
was on my
Grandmotherβs front porch;
slightly sour, slightly sweet,
all refreshing.
II
The insects of summer
buzz vibrant in the ears of
my cousins and I,
second only to the
cars and the heat and
the rush of
the suburbs of Hartford.
III
There is nothing like summer
when you are seven years old,
when the world stretches out
yawning before you;
reckless, restless, endless,
as if you could exist there forever.
β
Itβs been a minute since Iβve posted here, hasnβt it. So many things have changed for me - even the drive to write completely disappeared for a while. But I can feel it coming back in little spurts, when my mind is just quiet enough to hear it.
