David Thornbrugh




         SUMMER DAYS

Summer days of our youth

that will not come again, the strawberry

scab kneescape, the wet spots

young girls pressed into swimming pool

concrete, the dash across the front lawn

clutching quarters, dimes in sweating

hands for the ice cream truck.

Cool shadows at midday

under dense umbrellas of prune trees,

almonds, peaches, stacked pallets

of wooden crates under long shed

roofs of corrugated sheet metal.

Riding bicycles of only one gear

across flat fields channeled by

concrete irrigation ditches, up hills

west of town tumbled as a last thought

out of the Coast Range wrinkling

toward sunset in the Pacific.


I am riding my bicycle along

twisting streets that no longer

lead homeward, but the handlebars

come off in my grip like a divining rod

that dips downward, downward.

And I begin to dig.


Copyright 2003 David Thornbrugh.  All Rights Reserved.

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