Fireflies and humid nights,
summer yet to simmer, though memories stumble,
spilled time unravels like wrinkled ribbon
and poppies pressed on pages past
golden and green stems tangled
with fresh watermelon and lemon peel
cascading through parted creased lips.
Summer is a canvas
waiting to be painted
jet ski on the lake
where our childhood dock remains
a gazebo of dreams refurbished
and if I blink
there is always tomorrow,
but yesterday is a revolving door
when time is off the clock.
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
