Flanked by the weary march of entangled apple trees
the narrow road was nothing if not summer,
and as elastic as creosote caressed
by the sapping of the sun.
That was when adults got lost in thought,
children in a fan-cast clutch of dust;
when the dog got lost beneath the porch,
and the water was flat as oil.
I ache to wrap myself in mud daubers,
honeysuckle and bramble; to hurl
shells and bones from the bank. I ache
to catch my family almost at ease.