The smell of late Summer is in the air. Juice runs down my chin from a perfectly ripe pear.
Barefoot in the grass shucking peas. Surrounded by rustling sweet-scented leaves and diligent hovering bumblebees.
You’ll tell the story about the frog and the lily pad. You’ll take me down dirt roads and remove everything that’s sad.
The end of summer means I’m going home soon. No more sleeping covered by scratchy line-dried Aztec sheets under a watchful moon.
You’ll make me an RC float to wash this Indian Summer down. Singing Country Roads in the Ranchero, your love tied up in the sound.
