Summer

Forgive me, summer,
You’ve been too kind
to call me human
while I’ve been a ghost,
wasting your sunlit seconds
as if they were raindrops
on pavement in England.

Give me, summer,
another week to suckle
your electric colors, flowers
that smell of dreams,
pollen scattered by wishes,
whispering palm trees
never quite captured right
in Hollywood movies.

You will always be
eucalyptus leaves
in campfire memories;
salty deserts along Route 66;
morning skies all the colors
of your ripening figs;
Fourth of July fireworks
dissipating, quiet,
like freedom.