Posts Tagged ‘summer’

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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Sometimes midsummer the body
simply refuses to go inside. Though
reason would say to hide from the sun
midday, the body goes out anyway
to the garden, the orchard, the river,
the field and gathers warmth, as if
it could store this wealth of light, as if
one winter night it might from some fold
of pallid skin produce a secret radiant skein,
something fulsomely warm still smack
with peonies and wild mustard scent,
something not bitter and not at all slant
that we might wrap our shivering bodies in,
oh wheeling swallows, oh sun so high.

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