Perhaps it is because summer means T-shirts and shorts. Clothed just enough to be presentable in public. Leaving bare skin exposed and wind blowing through my hair, summer is the most sensual of the four seasons.
One of my favorites pieces of poetry reflects these times, repeated summer after summer. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember times past when my children were young. . .
embodied summertime
hot sweaty body,
dirt between my toes,
smears from a grubby hand
brushing away mosquitoes
up one leg, down an arm
and across my cheek,
tired sore muscles and
satisfaction of hard physical work
bring a garden of beauty to life
ahhh - body memories
cold clear water from
swimming pools, mountain streams,
blueberry picking time,
one eye alert for bears,
the other on ice cream buckets
slowly filling with blue fragrance,
car trips and camping expeditions,
adventures with children,
backyard barbecues of chicken
with secret sauce,
fresh buttered ears of corn,
big pitchers of minted tea
evening loon calls
under star-studded skies,
full days of paddling a canoe,
flea market bargains
repaired and stripped of paint,
frosty tall glasses of lemonade,
nine months pregnant,
red ripe tomatoes, sweet basil,
yellow squash fried up with
onions and fresh dill
lazy summer days,
it seemed
they'd last forever
and forever
from one of my books of poetry
Waiting for the Heat to Pass
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