Summer in five senses

Sketchbook number nine

First, the flavors: Rainier cherries, chocolate 
cupcakes from my 31st birthday party, 
a bottle of chilled orange wine and hot pink 
cosmos on the rocks, homemade oat bars sweet 
with strawberries handpicked by a friend, 
but mostly crumbs left behind — shards of Cheetos, 
buttery crackers, jalapeño potato chips 
like a mosaic on a picnic table.

Then, the smells: roses in bloom like a perfume 
sample from the makeup counter, smears of coconut 
sunscreen on my cheeks and arms and neck, 
a damp bathing suit haunted by the sharp scent of chlorine, 
the stench of old sweat across the visor
of my favorite baseball cap.

And touch — god, the way my favorite linen shirt 
hangs loose off my body, the brittle pages 
of a water-damaged paperback (sorry), my softest beach towel 
around my shoulders after a dip in the lake, 
the lake itself, still a little too cold 
for swimming, but you get used to it, 
I swear. 

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Next are the sights: colorful candles dripping 
wax at a backyard solstice party, a pillowy cloud blocking the sun,  
temporary shade (and relief), a dog wading in the ocean, 
wet tail flicking water up like confetti. 

Finally, the sounds: the new Charli XCX + Lorde song 
on repeat in the car, volume up, windows down, 
my own voice loud and off key, the trill 
of my bicycle bell while dodging pedestrians 
on the bike path near my apartment, a harbor seal’s throaty bark, 
a seagull’s shrill caw, the thump of a volleyball 
hitting flexed forearms at the beach, a child's shriek 
when the waves lap their toes, the tall evergreen rustling outside 
my open bedroom window, a cool breeze lulling me to sleep.