Category: Summer 2024

The seasons don’t follow our calendar.
They have one of their own. In theirs,
it’s not here one day, gone the next.
It’s more like a spiraling flow, the ending
of one song blending into the next,
changing its tone, introducing a new theme.
A note here and there, a phrase,
a fragrance, a measure of unexpected
heat or cold alerts you if you are awake
to such things. Here, in late July,
the tree of heaven is showing off
thick clumps of rosy, ripening seeds
and the corn is tall in the fields.

It’s not clear at first what is real, what is dream,
what is fog, what is hilltop, what is cloud, what is sky.
Illusion rolls into illusion. Let it be. The dawn requires
no naming, no interpretation. It carries its own light.
Watch. Listen. Breathe.

Two fireflies danced through the woods last night,
the sight all the more precious now that their season
has reached its final days. Overhead, the first evening stars
sparkled against a dark velvet sky whose western horizon
still glowed with a deep orange gold. I slept in the sweetness
of perfumed air that carried the songs of crickets and frogs.
Then, when I woke, the world had been transformed,
the night’s twinkling lights exchanged for a shimmer of dew,
its tiny globes sparkling from every emerald blade of grass.
Such gifts, so freely given! These wondrous, velvet nights,
and all the glistening mornings.

Okay, summer; you win.
I admit that at first I was put off
by your incessant rains. And when
they ceased, I didn’t trust your dazzle,
seeing it as so much show, an act.
But now you have convinced me.
Your sincerity is everywhere, deep
in its greens, devoted in its endless
display of color. And at last
your warmth has penetrated
my understanding, and I want
nothing more than to sink
into your loving emerald arms.

The creek, despite our abundant rains,
is surprisingly dry, its rocky bed exposed
along the shore and making islands
in its center. Still, sheltered as it is
by the wooded hills, it cools its surrounds
and sings its quiet song. And here and there,
where the light rolls down and falls
beneath its surface, you can see its clarity.

Light does that. Its radiant energy
rolls all the way from the sun, down
through the millions of miles of space,
through the layers of atmosphere and cloud,
past the thick canopy of dancing leaves
and through the slow whispering waters
until it finds earth, bouncing off everything
on its way, flowing right into your eyes
to show you clearly the truth of what’s there,
the Yes of all the things that were hidden
in shadow before it came, rolling down.

Oh yes, there are lakes here, too,
shimmering bodies of fresh water
that reflect the blue sky and the green
of the forested hills surrounding them.
Silvery fish swim in their waters, and geese
paddle past or bask on the shores in the grass.
And oh! The wildflowers dancing on the shore!
This is summer in its perfection.
Wish you were here!

The creek is nearly dry now,
the rocks that make up its bed
exposed. Feeling the dry air
against their surfaces, they remember
the high places from which they fell
ages ago, and before that, the eons
they spent inside the earth’s womb
until the thunderous tumult pushed
them upward through its crust until
they reached the sky. They recall
the way trees grew between them,
winding their great roots in a living caress,
freeing them, one by one, to tumble
downward, to begin the long journey
home.

Every now and then something catches my eye,
and I hear a whispered invitation: Look.
I’ve learned humbly to accept,
to focus my attention
on the sight before me.
Then I gasp in wonder and awe.

Even then, I was mesmerized
by your iridescent color.
And I’m not sure that I believed
what my mother said was true.
Looking back,I can suppose
it was one of those days
when I had already asked her
a hundred questions before
I pointed to one of your kind
and asked her what it was was.
I’m almost embarrassed to tell you.
But she said it was a sewing bug
and that its one and only mission
was to stitch up children’s mouths
so they would never speak again.
My friends and I would scream
and run from your species
as you darted among us in our play.
If my mother’s ploy was to silence us,
I guess she failed. But today
when I see you, I smile, remembering,
and you seem to shine all the more
for the doubled joy you bring.

The Rose of Sharon floats on its ocean
of green like flowers in a dream, soft,
with a meaning all its own. Rising
from its center, magenta secrets
point upward like the peaks
of a crown, hinting rare jewels
might lie at its center, some wisdom
perhaps, that will be revealed
if I wait and watch for yet
one more day.