Of Summer Passing

Down the road from my house, the lake is a magnetic. Swimmers are thirst for water. Walkers are intent, eyes open for little joys; summer’s forget-me-nots. Toddlers and grandaddies jiggle along, with mamas and papas shining a compass in the lead. And God knows what they search for; orienteering an unromantic way of interacting with nature. Opinionated kids saying the darndest things fill the air with “whys” to their nanas’ amusement. The sun slants west, and music blasts. It’s the yet-to-be-educated leaders of tomorrow playing freshman games, planning to be wasted. That was yesterday.

This is today, the last Sunday of summer and the beginning of autumn, and my plea to you: forget the thankless suburban housekeeping, switch off the idiot box, let the hypersensitive unsocial grids rest for a change, put down all bright shiny objects, and go outside. In an effort not to detain you any further, the chat room is closed today. Go outside to fill yourself with sunshine. Go, now!


Khaya Ronkainen
Khaya Ronkainen is a writer, poet and blogger. Her blog focuses on poetry and creative nonfiction, and also features poets and their books.
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