childhood summers
exist in my mind
as blurred nostolgia–

stepping out into the morning
and letting the air,
heavy with dew, fill

my body. my grandmother
and i would sit on her
porch, our hands wrapped

around mugs of coffee
and i’d lean my head
against her arm. after a bowl

of cereal, i’d nap under the quilts
of her bed. only the mornings
hold this poignancy,

everything else seems
to have the same
finiteness as the now.