The #1 Sign of Summer!

I love how they package these popsicles ... in a mesh bag - they look amazing! Can't freeze them fast enough to keep up around here!

Popsicles have always been such a huge part of summer my whole life ...
I remember the days when we made our own popsicles ... Mom would freeze Koolaid in icecube trays. It was a huge revolutionary "event" the day that Tupperware introduced the plastic popsicle molds! We'd check the freezer every ten minutes to see if they were ready yet! Now I'm addicted to the frozen fruit bars - in particular the "real fruit" (strawberry) Yummmm ....

In blog talking with my artist friend, Liz, (about how she renders walnut ink for use in her amazing art!) I was reminded of my childhood when we pounded mimosa blossoms to render our own "paint" (which we then used to create our "art" on the driveway and tattoos on our bodies - yikes!) That in turn reminded me of this poem I wrote a few years ago - which oddly enough happens to speak of both popsicles and mimosa juice memories in celebration of summer and childhood - and holding onto what we can of it all ...

Stains of Summer

I put on quite a show in my garden today...
heated beyond all sensibility I throw down my tools
and sprint through the sprinkler mist.
Grass and soil cling to my toes,
mascara runs unchecked
down sunburned cheeks puffed wide in a comic grin -
as the water cools hot skin,
washes me clean of the day's sweat and red clay.
Shimmering rainbows of wet
glisten on grateful hot and weary muscle,
and my bones listen to remembered whispers
of younger days in the sun...

I was an abstract --
lively, living-child art.
Purple popsicle drips on brown bare legs
grass greened knees,
tattoos drawn in mimosa ink,
blackberry juice dribbled on cheek and chin -
summer stains worn with pride
scrubbed away in a glide
down a long, long runway
of dayglow orange slip-n-slide -
or bleached away in chlorined pools
to the point of sun weary, wrinkled,
red-eyed bliss....

or simply left to fade with the day.

A neighbor happens by;
her horn honk blasts me from my reverie-
I tip my soggy garden hat in salute
and paint my smile with purple popscicle.

Copyright ©2005 Susan M. Kennedy