"Mad, Naked, Summer Night!"

All I want tonight is to kick off my flip flops and walk barefoot through the park, down by the lake, holding hands with the one I love. I want to take a bottle of beer for each of us, leave the kittens and Duncan behind and go off on our own, with only the stars and the moon and night blossoms to spy on us and smile as we slip past them. I want to feel as safe and immortal as the teenagers who gather in small groups or in couples and hope we can't smell their pot or don't hear their whispered, amateur dirty talk, followed always by awkward snickers of embarrassment. I want to hold his hand and walk the trail and feel like we did way back when, when confessions were new and exciting and staying up all night talking was not out of the question. I want to run and laugh and not feel as old as I do, with this aching back and these unending practical concerns that the young have no idea are about to swallow them up. Reading is not enough; I want to live the words of Whitman's poem:

Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic,
nourishing Night!
Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars!
Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night!

I want. I want. I want. This is what Summer is all about. Wanting and wanting and wanting some more, wanting enough to get through the rest of the year.