Summers seemed to go for miles
Mine were filled with endless play
Freckled friends with toothless smiles
Each day dripped like sweet snow cones
Slowly savoring each new hour
Underneath the Sycamore shade
Peering up through lush green bower
Barefoot summer afternoons
Deep blue sky like a precious jewel
Shimmy down to our swimming suits
Dead man float in the public pool
Climb the ladder up the trunk
To see what daddy built for me
A real tree-house among the fragrant
blooms of the old Mimosa tree
Languid, rainy afternoons
As hot drops dripped down window panes
Playing house beneath card tables
Entertained by old board games
Grab the checkered picnic basket
Bologna sandwiches in the park
Soaring like the kite we guided
Catching fireflies after dark
Do you think the grown-ups then
Felt this wistful as we played...
Wonder if they ever pondered
What happened to THEIR good ol' days?
Summers now are so much shorter
Paid Time Off is how mine's spent
But sometimes memories can take me
Back to summers without end.
8 comments:
We didn't have a tree.
I loved your poem cause it did bring back memories. My summers were amazing, long days spent outdoors barefoot, playing tag or hide and seek or "horses". Indoors it was Barbies for hours on end. We went to the neighborhood pool, but it wasn't joy you experienced. The minute I took my glasses off, my friends would disappear!
We went barefoot every chance we got, and we did have a tree house! Your poem brought back a lot of memories - it described my childhood summers almost to a tee.
Thanks, Cindy. BTW...there's no point in posting anonymous if you're then going to call me and tell me you've made a comment. And thank God for laser eye surgery!!!
And Christina! Thanks for stopping by...and for backing me up lately...
So who built your tree house...your addle-headed dad? Or was it your multi-talented mom?
Thanks for stopping by my blog. I've replied to your questions . . .
Are you trying to turn my own daughter against me?
CHRISTINA, DON'T LISTEN TO HER!
(Actually, her Mom designed it. I just did the grunt work. With supervision, natch.)
I love the poem, by the way. No kidding. (For once.)
That's the way things are around here. I'm the brains and he's the brawn. He does get a little upset when I get compliments like "Oh, Karyn I love your flowers" and all I did was point to them at the nursery and say, "those would look good." And then when we get home I point again and say "over there."
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