Sunday Morning Poetry

Summer is with it
                she's wild,
                she likes
                bare legs and cutoffs
                and camping
                and hikes;
                she dives in deep water,
                she wades in a stream,
                she guzzles cold drinks
                and she drowns in ice cream;
                she runs barefoot,
                she picnics,
                she fishes,
                digs bait,
                she pitches a tent
                and she stays up too late
                while she counts the stars,
                swats mosquitoes and flies,
                hears crickets,
                smells pine trees,
                spies night-creature eyes;
                she rides bareback,
                goes sailing,
                plays tennis,
                climbs trees;
                she soaks in the sunshine;
               she gulps in a breeze;
               she tastes the warm air
               on the end of her tongue,
               and she falls asleep
               reading
               alone
               in the sun.
 ~ Myra Cohn Livingston

She's nearly here, friends.  Happy summer.