by Gianna Hayes ’26
And it was a sort of magic,
the way the summer
used to drag on
spinning dizzy like the
tire swing which
whirled you ’round ’til
perhaps you felt queasy.
(I know I did.)
Yes, it was some magic,
how the blue-blurred clouds
flew past like hungry larks
pecking at black raspberries
June-ripened juice staining
their needle-nosed beaks
Dad’s kitchen alchemy
forged the fruit into steamy quintessence
poured molten over vanilla ice cream.
And sometimes, quintessence
included the seeds
stuck in your teeth.
