Sonnet to That Phantom Summer

I sit in the middle of a soft creek.

Children wade around me, their bare feet so

tender and yet immune to the sharp peaks

under them. Smell of big barbecue floats

by. Air golden with glitter signaling

the birthdays of lions. As I rise, bright

water turns to rug, sky turns to ceiling.

Giggles fueled by sweet tea fade into white

walls. That phantom summer raged forth from one

weakened spring and left with a vile fist pump.

I did not have you, but emerge now, run

out from behind the curtains of care, thump

the day for signs of ripeness. I reach for

your heat with hunger. Grateful, survivor.