To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie –
True Poems flee.
— Emily Dickinson
Summer is short . . . soon the sand in the car will be replaced by ice on the windshield, the popsicle residue where you least expect it a thing of the past, the true poetry of children on a summer day a memory.
Don’t rush to clean up every mess, stop when you can to take this all in, and hold on tight because true poems do indeed flee–and, in the case of children, all too fast.