Cold Stone

All good summer should be as it is,
grounded in childhood
and envied by adulthood.

The stone beneath our bare feet moves
cold, solid, but moving.
Waves of winter dissipated and evaporated
to the summer, that throws us out into the deep
green lush, a living palace.
That is now,
the summer, a living breathing thing,
we give it all the air from our lungs.
We run, out, out, from the water fountain in the center
of the park its bright and glowing steel. My sister and I
small and running through the maze of red and blue
monkey-bars, and slides.
Nothing chases us, nothing separates us.
We get to the edge, the forest
starts to collapse in, an uneven edge
of life creeping out.
A slide, with dull metal that falls down
fathoms into the forest, a pit nearly.
You jump on and fly,
I follow reluctantly,
and its over before I remember.
We climb the wooden stairs back and out.
They're too big for me, I crawl.
You wait, even though you don't want to,
and we fly again, and again.
Why didn't we grow wings?
The night crawls in and the orange
fades away, smiling.

All good summer should be as it is,
grounded in childhood
and envied by adulthood.