Opening the attic door.
Creaking and cracking.
All the way down in the back
Is that dusty old box lying in the corner
I drag it out and begin to wonder
What shall I pack in the box marked summer?
Should I pack the rickety old lake house
That sits on the end of Blue Spruce Lane?
Or maybe I should pack away
The summer nights that are like outer space; beautiful, clear, and wondrous.
Maybe I could pack away the boardwalk as well?
With it’s never ending mobs of people
Or it’s fattening fried foods?
Maybe this year I will need a bigger box marked summer.