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?