POEM: ‘Summer’

Contributed by: Keith Parsons, professor of philosophy

Do we remember childhood as it was,
Or as we wish it to be?
Memory is a trickster,
And fifty years is long enough for many pranks.
But the scent of clover on a warm spring morning,
Brings a thought of hours idling in the grass,
Of languid summer afternoons
When time stood still almost,
And you actually heard the sound of bird or bee.
Sun through leaves dappled all things,
And the warm, humid air did not oppress,
But caressed, gentler than smoothest silk.
And animals—the neighbor’s or yours—it did not matter,
Stretched, languorous as you,
Rose, scratched, chewed,
And resumed their place by your side.
The distant rumble of thunder
Presaged the fall of enormous drops,
That plopped distinctly into the dust.
After the rain, an abundance of puddles and rivulets.
Last year’s school was a dim, distant memory,
And next fall’s classes were a reality unborn,
Which could not intrude into the sanctity of summer.
As the light slowly died into velvet night,
Stars, and their rivals the fireflies.
Did I once know such peace?
Yes I did; it is not memory’s prank.
But where is it now?
Has striving and care lost it?
Have conflict and disappointment killed it
Or buried it too deep to find?
No.
No. It is there. There.
Part of you then and forever,
Waiting for you to call it back,
To conjure it with the scent of clover on warm air,
The sound of bird or bee,
Or the roll of distant thunder.