Lush and spacious
heady leaves of green
bend to arch and
shade the road we drive on.
It’s summer on Long Island.
Farmers selling berries, roasted corn
and apple pies in roadside stands
along the way.
And on my left
peeking through the bursts of sunlight
Children . . . splashing in the waters
of the calm blue bay.
Around the bend some
strawberry pickers
congregate on sunny fields . . .
their humming
fills the air like bees,
And there an old abandoned tractor
sleeps away its day of rest
as corn grows high and magpies flutter.
A farm house sits way back on open land
and the farmer’s wife
on her white post porch,
sips lemonade and waves
a cool wet hand at me
as if I know her . . .
perhaps I do.
I know everyone today.
It’s summer on Long Island . . . and I’m home.
Joanne Cucinello
