(c) 11/13/2021
Reckless as a naked babe riding a horse without reins,
abandoned to joy with the welcome sun—
this is the season I’ve done nothing but receive.
Down the street the town’s water reserves overflow.
Orchards pulse—flowers and fruit.
The dog comes running when I call.
My favorite season— I savor it,
even if it arrived late, even if it is brief.
Then the yard and the small field out back
fill with flittering things—butterflies, dragonflies,
white moths circling the porch light.
Aphids in the foxtail barley.
The ranch cat’s kittens gone.
This has happened before.
So many summers require a discrimination
that is often beyond me—
so many awakenings, some fruitful,
some dead on arrival.
Sometimes the world lifts you—
sometimes it buries you in mud.
When the world is ready to close—
a day, a season, a phase—
it sends you back
to your own rough beginning.
You, fool—
not finished,
but starting again.
