Summers Back Then

Summers back then were longer,

humid, lazy, green,

dew drops on the grass in the mornings,

cold and clinging to the blades like transparent pearls.

Dirty, burnt soles from walking barefoot

on the boards, the sand, the slate.

Dips in the ocean,

tumbled at the will of the tide,

the waves,

cold emersions,

gulps of crisp air,

washes of relief,

adrenaline, exhaustion,

the bellowing silence of water still fills my ears

at the recollection of the memory.

Hair bathed in salt water and strawberry shampoo.

Golden skin and porcelain divided by stark lines.

I was alone most times, but not lonely.

The little Carnegie Library yielded

book after book after book.

I drank them dry in the blue rocking chair,

left wanting more stories to absorb,

to escape into for a while and explore.

Long walks in the sinking shallows,

learning the merits of a wandering mind with free roam,

the inspiration,

the boundless imagination,

while picking up gleaming rocks

that never failed to cloud over

when stolen from the shoreline,

where they’d once shined.