Brooks

14

Summer

What's the difference between
Watching the mixing pot of the icy ephemeral Pacific
And perched in a brittle birch that appears to be so lengthy that it tickles the underbelly of the cumulus and makes them giggle into ponds and rivers?
Is it the stinging taste of salt in my nostrils
Or the cushion of bark beneath my khakis?
I see the same horizon
I see the same visions of the future lying across it, in an apparition.
And I see the same stars pull open the blackest nights like zealous velvet drapes
I feel the same ghostly hand grip my heart ever so slightly
Lift it
And toy with it like a greasy flesh colored putty.
Giving it a new sight
And diminishing it's awareness of time.
Will it matter how I choose to spend my days?
Be it riding my bike through pine cone sprinkled trails in sap stained parks
Allowing a lime Popsicle to melt on to my pulsating taste buds
Or letting the harmony of life guide me like a conductor
I know it won't make a difference.
I will know this more and more as I watch the waves along the beach.
As they teach me:
The beauty of summer is not the decorative facade.
The truth is in in the evanescence.
An element that has been sought after since the beginning of time.
But all that is left is syrupy popsicle sticks and a faded beach towel.