Rusty recollections of painted
    summer skies: as dusk approaches,
        the clouds change as the wind bellows:
            plum, blood orange, amaranth, goldenrod.

Walking along the beach, there is ample light
    to find the colored glass, smoothed
        by the harsh, salty sea, rounded and polished,
            in various hues of sea foam, navy, and coral.

I would collect these liquid shards,
    and deposit them into miniature jars
    that sat on my desk in my bedroom,
        along with my menagerie of sand dollars,
        starfish, and sea horses, reminding me
            of a brisk summer breeze adrift
            from the ocean, brushing over
       our tanned bodies, and tranquil smiles.

During those simmering days, you could spot
    color nearly every place trekked, the aqua-blue
        and green crests of waves, tinged with white,
            the red and ivory striped lighthouse that sat
    at the pier, and all the candied shades
        of swim suits, the full spectrum of the rainbow
            represented, often in the most garish displays.
Children would swim to shore in cerulean
    and dusty rose blow-up rafts they would cling
        to so they avoided the perilous undertow.
Pink and golden tan bodies lined the shore
    under brightly tinted umbrellas in an effort
        to block harmful ultraviolet rays cascading
        from the fiery orb that cast its heat
            on bodies dabbed with lotion and baby oil;
            a searing, scorching sun burn awaited
       those who did not heed the cautionary tales
            of the perils from direct exposure to the sun.

As twilight marched into the moss green
    cottage where we lay content having dined
    on a supper of fried shrimp, hush puppies,
        coleslaw, and watermelon, we drifted
        into slumber, the breeze cooling down
            the smothering heat of the arid afternoon,
            listening to the rolling crash of the surf
                as it tumbled over the shore, the moon
    pushing and pulling the tides, depositing
        more treasures along the beach for us to uncover
        the following day when we would once again savor
           our vacation, our haven, cherished memories
               embedded in our minds for us to relish
in the following years when the whimsical
    fantasies of childhood were long past,
        casting its visceral spell from a lifetime ago.

© Michael Wayne Holland, All Rights Reserved