The last day of school is done,
backpack light as air, and I’m zipping
down the street on my bike.
A boy from my class waves
by the fence—he likes me,
I think, and I smile and keep on riding.
I swerve around a pothole and glide
on freshly laid pavement, smooth
as frosting. My pocket holds
money for a sno-cone and I can already
see the syrup pouring down, drenching
the icy surface in orange or red.
The hydrangea bursts
with purple globes and there’s that freaky
gingko tree, older than the dinosaurs.
The tip of my ponytail tickles
my neck, and all my muscles
feel taut. Summer—the word
wets my mouth with the tang
of sour candy, bounces
around my brain like the announcement
of a miracle. I curve around the corner
in perfect control, I’m twelve years old
and I can do anything
with no thought for time,
the pure hot air firing
my blood, as a sweet scent drifts down
from all the linden trees in bloom.
Grey Sparrow Journal 