in the early morning swelter

of the day’s promised misery,

a glimpse of my 10-year-old self

as she would have reveled

in the glory of a late day in June

I understand, in that sunshiny moment,

the allure of the season

*

I sense it in the humid air,

the titillation of childhood adventures

the what-might-be,

the who-I might-become —

indeed, the grasshopper-chasing,

dredge ditch exploring, watermelon essence

of our school-year reprieve

*

scolding my jaded self, I ponder

the pickpocketing, innocence-robbing

years of adulthood, and I marvel

at the possibility of returning

to a once-more youthful appreciation

of what-might-yet-be,

of who-I-might-yet-become