Old Ghosts

The heat makes me melancholy.

This ethereal blanket,

Of sweetgrass scents,

Of dry wind caresses,

Of twittering birds,

And cars bouncing to the bass-line.

Whispering the past and

Summers long gone,

Before I understood

Loss and what ifs,

Before the scars,

And the voices,

Clamouring,

Nagging,

Reminding me,

Of a time when,

I watched from a window,

As teen aged boys,

Skateboarded down the middle,

Of South Street,

At midnight,

Laughing,

Of a time when the Sou'Westerlies,

Brought warmth forcefully,

To the normally cool nights,

And we listened to Alan Parsons,

Still caught up,

In each other's spell.

 

This heat makes me melancholy,

As it stirs up,

Old ghosts.