Summer.

Summer is the bright sundresses my little sister used to wear.
It's the cut-off shorts she wears now.
Summer is running through a down pour from a hose.
It's holding on to the sun and dancing in the streetlights after dark.
Summer is little league games and the sticky kisses on the cheek
when we get ice cream, whether he wins or not.
It's freckles that appear like magic,
sprinkled for the season across my best friends face.
Summer is feet, toughen from years of being beat up by hot concrete.
It's cruel, and mean, and seemingly endless,
but Summer can be happy too.
Summer is my hand held tightly in his,
as we lay in the bed of his beat up Ford.
It's the stars winking down at us,
twinkling with a laugh we can't hear.
Summer is the first time he kisses me.
It's chaste and innocent and full of potential.
Summer is the dinner his momma makes.
It's the way she sizes me up,
and tells me not to hurt her little boy.
Summer is the barn, and the hayloft
and the way he whispered he loved me.
Summer is knowing what love is.
It's sneaking to the lake just to skip rocks and hold his hand.
Summer is the calm before the storm.
Tours of colleges and begging him not to go too far.
Summer is the sparkle of the promise ring,
and the promise of hope.
And if you hide it far enough inside you,
Even when Autumn comes and Summer wants to go to sleep,
Summer is forever.