Observation of my Wichita home in the summer evenings. Nostalgia runs deep and apathy lessens it's vacant burden.

The sun sets upon the cul-de-sac

Around 7 or 8 or 9

I don’t remember,

Time shifts with time.

Google just told me it’s 8:39.

Summer holds onto light a little longer.

As it approaches,

The atmosphere,

Once void of image,

Overflows as a sea of gilded wavelengths.

As I swim in the expanse of light,

The day becomes Sunday,

(no pun intended)

And adolescence returns.

I call this place the house of the setting sun

Because daylight’s sinking summer path

Is precisely this street.

So, each evening of my muggy and easy youth

The cul-de-sac transforms into a cradled heaven,

Tunneling the emittance to illuminate this house alone.

The leaves beam gold

and the spaces in between diffuse a smoked glow.

I’m able to breathe in the sun,

Just as the pear trees that tower above.