Summer
I hear summer.
I hear crickets,
A fox's howl.
A mosquito buzzing at my most vulnerable ear.
I hear the struggling of the young hands at the piano as they try to
recapture the rapture of Tchaikovsky.
I hear the banal blare of the idiot box
And cattle in the distance,
A frog,
An airplane,
And unnameable noises that caress my ears, breathing summer.
And the scratching of my pen, desperate to capsule that which refuses,
yes-defies captivity.
Susan J. Skinner
copyright 2011/all rights reserved
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