A summer day sings a choir of trees,
tonal brilliance leaping branch to leaf,
skimming long-necked flowers or snaking vines,
then at rest in clouds and dirt, pooling in our hands.
Wind is breath of heavens unknown, unending;
sweeping valley, summit, plain or desert;
across swamp, the sea and brook;
and swirling, fleeing about gorge and tunnel.
Summer succor is warmth laid upon our flesh.
It wakes sleep walkers with notes of invitation.
Music to romance the ones who must crack open to mend.
July’s tunes dance where there is no one hopeful
enough to move to rhythms of living–the times so
reviled, forsaken and stolen. Suffering, cries that echo.
But still, let summertime enter, settle, sweep out the rooms,
shore up the fearful or weakened, calm the proud or jaded.
Summer unfurls its golden streamers, builds such lattice of shadows.
It deepens the seams of what is torn then slowly repaired.
Find herein a refuge of beauty’s secrets; tilt faces upward.
What can we not love about this winsome repertoire of calls;
gold glimmer astride wings; sunshine-ripened fruits;
and greenness, a miracle of this our yet-turning sphere–
such power, promise cascading from chalice of an azure sky?
Listen. Attune the soul with sweetness,
for it ever sings, the summer, generous
and abundant, day in and day out,
and will most sing for us here, now.