Summer Storms, by Lila Schlissel

In the sticky sweet watermelon juice, 

the breeze that tastes like freedom, 

bonfires and silent sunsets, 

fresh-squeezed basil lemonade that makes hands smell like happy, 

and days 

that age like ripening fruit 

 

In warm rain and the scent 

of a storm, in learning constellations 

and driving with the windows down, 

in putting your heart on a string and 

casting it into a narrow chasm 

 

In days with as much potential 

as blank pages and a pen full of  

ink 

 

There will come brisk breezes and  

frozen ground, dug graves and 

clinical obituaries, cloudy nights and 

squalls instead of sun showers.