My young feral instincts
understood
raindrops’ residue on hot pavement
(without being told or taught)
meant summertime,
In the same way
cut grass goodness
dictated and begged
our nightly revelries —
barefoot
(Ghost in the Graveyard
firefly chasing
front porch sleeping).
Working in the garden,
turned up dirt
lingering and clinging to
Daddy’s wrist and arm hairs
muddied the kitchen sink
spraying earth fumes,
inhalation inevitable,
unavoidable,
welcomed.