The trees in my backyard have exploded
with bundles of green boughs,
enveloping us in a paradise of birdsong and leafy emerald.
A picnic blanket of pure blue sky snatched
from some 1950s sitcom neighborhood can only mean summer days,
their yellow warmth and sunshine riptides
unpacked and here to stay.
Welcome evenings spent strolling
through the outdoor mall, mannequins 
clothed in flowy sundresses and floppy hats
watching as my sister and I sneak licks of whipped cream
from the bright red straws that are supposed to stay in our foamy milkshakes.
Days filled with novels under splashes of sunshine,
ungraded poetry,
and nonsensical laughter mark our calendars.
On Fourth of July nights we’ll light our sparklers
with the sleepy glow of a sun dripping drops of gold
into an ocean of forest.
We’ll wave our sticks of lightning sparks
like Tinkerbell’s pixie-dusted wand,
create infinite circles from our stolen fire
in front of fingers poised to cast a sorcerer’s spell,
imagining we are opening a portal to a dimension
we cannot yet comprehend
in which the idea of summer never spoils
and June remains an untouched dream.