Ghosts of Summer
In every breath of summer,
a head of hydrangea and
tumble of honeysuckle
trumpets twisted through
the paint-peeled chain link fence
in memory’s backyard—
A pulse of sun
white and sharp as July
bringing the sizzle of cicadas
to a nearly unbearable boil,
while umpteen mosquitoes
rise from the lawn, a tsunami
crashing above the clover and
clumps of crabgrass, its shadow
a hungry tangle of legs—
And the creek runs jagged, cold,
carried over flat, polished stones
resembling the wide, umber
arrows of copperheads,
its voice licked against bramble
and roots gnarled at its lips,
a slip of minnows flickering from view
as if ghosts, as if one could wade in
and catch a handful of souls
