The Youngest Forest

I had a summer of treasures.

Inhaling warm pine as though it’s my last breath. Scrambling on slick rocks.
If I can’t turn my face to the sun, I don’t know how to survive.
I always feel slightly adolescent at the end of summer Like I haven’t had enough. Like I haven’t floated on my back long enough…..till my anxiety sinks to the place in the lake in the depths that I can’t see. Eaten enough watermelon, the juicy kind that runs down your forearm. Laid on enough dirt roads with the soil that’s still warm from the day, waiting for the stars to make their appearance.