Posts Tagged ‘summer’





We ride on the rusty old bikes

in the swelter of June,

legs pumping, waving at strangers,

the wind making a kite

of our laughter—


The eight-year-old version of me

would never believe

about how happy we are—

she’s still ratting her brother out

to the recess guard.


But here we are, like two

young kids, playing in summer—

sticky hands and suntanned arms,

the years an ocean,

our love a boat.





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though during midsummer in Finland, the sun will float

above the horizon line for weeks, and each light-soaked

day seems longest. That is what I wish for you—

day after day of unsetting love, whole months when you feel

the most beloved, the most seen, the most embraced

for exactly who you are. I want to send you

giant bouquets of days, all of them the loveliest,

all of them invitations to feel the most wholly yourself.

And on the shorter days when warmth feels distant,

those are the days I want to remind you that it’s normal

to feel unlovable. It’s normal to feel not enough.

It’s normal to wish (unreasonable though it is)

that those days would disappear and every day could be

the best day, the longest light, the day most soaked with love.

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for Danny, Wendy & Art



The breeze was warm

and the day was hot

and the shade on the porch

was generous.

It was nothing magic.

It was total magic—

each moment, each word

a spell.

We spoke of news

and poetry, we spoke

of healing and loss.

It was forgettable.
I will never forget it—

the hush of our voices,

the currents of laughter

that wound around

the trees and the willows,

surrounding us like moat.

How could we predict the moments

that shape us the most?

The dogs lying at our feet.

The summer just starting

to burn.



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A big green meadow

opened in my heart

filled with dark purple larkspur

and fragrant sage—

and I stepped into it,

wondering how I had ever

stepped out of it—

come, meet me here,

here in the temple

of pulse and blue sky,

where everything

seems possible,

even love forever,

even love right now.

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Just After Midsummer



Tonight we wander the fresh mown grass,

barefoot. Winter feet refused to believe it were possible—

but here we are, naked of sole and stepping slow


on soft green earth. Sometimes a whole life

folds into a moment, a moment such as this one,

when the scent of grass is bright in the air


and the sun slants a long and golden trail

and the breeze barely whispers

and the swallows redefine gravity


and you know you belong among the wildflowers

and you start to believe in impossible things

like now, like here, like soft green grass.


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In Mid-September



Summer travels beyond itself and

warms the stones and gives

the flowers more of what they love.


it is like a lover who, though he

has told you he is leaving, returns

and kisses you until you are panting,


makes you believe he will always

hold you. But then, even as your lips part

and you lean in, he is gone again,


taking his warmth with him,

leaving your skin somehow more fragile

in the thin autumn air.

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Praise the summer, with its

endless drought. How you’d rather

revile it, change it, pray

for the world to be another way.

Praise the sky, relentlessly clear,

and the dry field that crunches

beneath your feet.

You dream of green, dream

of laughing in the rain, dream

of puddles and the thin river

rising. But praise the scarcity,

how it teaches you what

you would rather not know—

how fragile the balance,

how every drop matters,

how lucky it is

to grow.


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            for Christie and Dave



While standing amidst

the airy branches

of the mulberry bush

and pulling the darkest

fruits to our lips

and laughing

in the bliss of it,

it’s easy to believe

we will always

be happy, that there

will always be sweetness

enough to share,

and that there will always

be something wonderful

yet to ripen.

Yes, it is raining,

and yes, there are troubles,

far away and even inside

our own stories,

but for now, there’s

this branch, heavy

with midsummer,

there’s this humming

of old melodies

we all know, there’s

this stain on our chins,

on our busy hands.




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At the Edge of July




Summer, what could you say to this body,

this body nearing its autumn?

What could your flowers teach this heart

about blooming despite heat, despite drought?

What could your shortening days tell this woman

about opening to light?

Summer, I think I know too much.

Teach me warm. Teach me thunderstorm.

Teach me how to be green, and then greener.

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One Morning

folding up the tent—

summer in a small package

wood smoke still in my hair

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