Sweet-hot mornings sparkle with dew

Soft whirr of tires on oil-fresh river of smooth asphalt

While biking to the pool

Mowers spin their wet blades and growl gasoline

Smells like green

Resounding ping, new ball on tennis racquet

Strings springy and free as my limbs felt back then


Decades passed and I traded middle American idyll

For clutter and rush of New York City streets

And now I wonder

How will my daughter remember summers here?

Will she know the manic magic madness,

Wet towels on hot concrete, possibilities, smell of sunscreen,

Or something else, a place I've never been?