One fourth of my life has been summer,
short paroles from sentences diagrammed
in chalk and opened books, time looked
forward to and then spent mostly wondering
what to do with it. The time of year
that swings in my head like a screen door,
summer's a thing I step out to when I sleep:
a place of broad leafiness and bird song,
erased paths and roads of broken shells.
It arcs and wheels in my head like herring gulls
and bicycles, dizzy and hungry and joyous
until I'm called from the dream
by my young mother's voice. In the cool dark,
I listen to the first excited rumblings,
and wait in a fraction of eternity for a bell
to ring, an open door to bring a warm slice of sky.