Days of Summer.


I remember when I would lay on the scorching ground,

small stones leaving their mark against my dirty grubby skin.

marching across my toes in a blazing glory,

as I laid on the ground, imagining another story.

I recall the sky was a deep, deep blue. So deep it looked

angry and alone forcing all of its emotions into the

burning fire ball. I would lay there, block out my world,

just me alone with the wild dandelions, I was that girl.

I would often walk barefoot across the black burning tar,

the heat penetrating my soles, tingling I would hop from

one foot to another. At night I would sit and pick out

little stones and splinters of glass no doubt.

I kept jars full of wishes and boxes full of snails

I let ants walk across my skin and lady birds

crawl over my fingers. I made them homes in the dirt

and when they died I cried true tears of hurt

for a second, a fleeting moment then I spun around

and hopped some more beneath that deep and angry sky.

The summer came, the summer went,

and this is how my days were spent.