Summer
My socks and shoes are remiss,
negligent,
in the summer.
To walk barefoot is a delight.
It’s silly to walk on gravel,
but I do anyway.
I walk with vigor.
I am unsettled.
The summer air is pompous—
hot and haughty,
yet it is an iniquity
not to breathe it.
The trees are amorous.
They are fully green
and seen
and they love it.
I too thrive in these three months.
Here comes the warmth.