Sixth Summer
by Sean Tibbitts
Rich the smell of summer, rising from the long, untamed, untrammeled grass.
There is no larger place in the world than this, your grandmother’s backyard:
You know this because you are six,
and because you can see the end of the earth if you peek through her fence.
The sharp, dusty smell of the green grass, the hot, heavy breath of the tall sky above,
and the quick-burrowing itch of the foxtail in your sock.
The world is composed of discrete pieces that fit together just so: this, and this, and this
make Summer.
Pluck the foxtail carefully from your ankle, and make sure to get its brothers,
their noses buried in the seams of your shoe.
The lawn must be placated, so roll across it with abandon.
Your grandmother will scold you for the green stains,
but she is foolish and old and cannot smell the difference between the untouched
blade of grass and the sweeter, deeper odor
of the gently bruised stalk.
When grandfather gets home he will mow, filling the air with the angry
bewildered roar of the power mower and the stench of oil and gas and
the unhappy pungency of the savaged lawn.
When you are older, that will mean Summer. But for now,
know that you are right, and they are wrong,
and for now that it is all that matters.
The taut-bellied blue sky holds the heat close to the ground
as you run through the tall grass
towards the fence
to see
the end
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