Scraps of Summer
by caroline b. pidgeon
Dewy mornings, Of cowboy games, When birds first chirped, Exhausted long before noon, The birds and us. Afternoons so screaming hot, We stripped to midriffs. Popsicle stains, Dirt streaked bare feet, Ponytails hanging loose, We could’ve been street urchins Instead of southern suburbanites. Hunting for a lawn sprinkler, Or wondering if the cool ride down Was worth pedaling up the hill. Lucky if the swing was in the shade Or an afternoon squall blew in. The only sure thing Would be the mosquitoed night Speckled with fireflies. Smelling of pine And garden roses.
Pond Life
by rita dee peters
98
99
