I want to hear the music of summer.

A music of yesteryears that is unadorned

and gruff, the notes in line with the blazing

morning sun, notes that feel stripped away.

A reminder to the defrost the cloud filled

memories that swell and shrink with the

supple lyrics, a street tell-tales survivor story

around and around in an infinite loop.

A puddle is about to be desiccated, a siren that

goes silent for years, a shifting sky above

knows the fears of outrunning shadows,

of those who always claiming me as theirs.

In summer, I dream of a tall house with

empty windows, the gardens set pattern

of dry flowers and trees, a dream that meanders

into my memory that will inhabit later.

Music is always the wave that soars and heal,

that washes everything except my voice.