On this, her last day, July
opened a golden zinnia
as if to say, “Here, imprint this
as a token of my stay.” It burned
its summer colors into my mind,
hues that held the luminous essence
of July, the season’s zenith, warm
and bright enough to linger
through all that is to come
before her next return.
Come, bees, on your impossible wings.
Come play in this ruffled garden.
Its royal hues and jewel-centered
crowns are just for you, planted
for your delight. Bring your bee dreams,
and wallow in this bee heaven, then
return to your queen and tell her tales
of your wondrous flight.
Be who you are. Sing it out
boldly. Trumpet your song.
Even if those who surround you
seem to be singing a different
strain, from a distance all songs
blend into one great harmony,
into layers of the symphony
Oh my! What big eyes you have,
Mr. Dragonfly! And how like a biplane
you seem to be with those papery thin
double wings. Are you from here?
Or did our flowers draw you from
a magic, alien world, some imaginary
place far away where flowers
only come in black and white,
lacking the deliciousness of pink?
I think I get to make a wish on you,
just because you are so splendid.
And in return, let me grant you
wishes, too, for pink summer flowers
Beneath a sky veiled with pearly clouds
the lake is still, as if I’ve found it
in morning prayer or meditation.
Here on the hillside above it
I find a place to sit and to breathe
its calm, allowing the peace of it
to seep into my being. It feels
deep and immense, and for all
its tranquility, incredibly dynamic
with burgeoning life, within
and all around it, full, and dancing
to the grand symphony of Yes.
When I am filled with it, I go
into my day, quieted and rich,
and the lake goes with me.
Queen Anne spreads her lace
across the meadows, her black-red
ruby proclaiming her right to rule.
The grasses bow to her fragrance.
The clover rises to applaud.
The sky sends popcorn clouds
to mirror her beauty. Wasps
and irridescent flies buzz their joy,
and all the meadow sings.
Some things come with built-in smiles.
You know, kittens and puppies,
That sort of thing. They just make you
feel all better inside. Take these
flowers, for instance. Their yellow
just cancels out all your blue,
makes you believe in laughter
and light all over again.
Makes you feel how the Yes
genuinely loves us, whether
we deserve it or not.
Oh yes, there are lakes here, too,
shimmering bodies of fresh water
that reflect the blue sky and the green
of the forested hills that surround them.
Silvery fish swim in their waters, and geese
paddle past or bask on the shores In the grass.
And oh! The wildflowers that dance along
their edges. This is summer in its perfection!
Wish you were here!
It matters that you see
and remember because
you are the Keeper, the one
charged to hold this moment
as clearly as you can. Imprint
it indelibly on your mind,
so that one day, when such
things as summer roses
have forever disappeared,
you will be able to tell
how they were real,
and delicate, and how
they let you know
that you, too, were real,
breathing their fragrance,
touched by sweet beauty,
hearing their life-song
singing in your soul.
Look closely, with open
eyes and a welcoming heart.
You are the Keeper.
Walk past the lake, covered now
in green duckweed, breathing
the hot moist air. Then note
the white wildflowers rising,
almost weightless, from its banks,
a slice of cool, as if a wisp
of frost were floating by.
Always, there is balance.
Yes. And grace.