solstice

Summer arrives in a few minutes
announced only by the estival breezes
and the clacking of the wooden
blinds in our room. The sun filled
the room with light just after five
this morning and won’t retreat
until nearly ten.

This is the longest day.

Somewhere around ten I watched
the taillights of the Wranger
disappear around the corner
as you left for  a week of work
in another town. We will sleep
under the same moon, but
not in the same bed.

This is the longest day.

I picked lettuce for lunch
from the garden and I can’t let
this beautiful afternoon pass
without a walk on the beach.
These are things we do
together, you and I. Today
I will go alone.

The Mayans were so connected
to the seasons and the sun
that they knew exactly when
the first light would break into
their temple at Solstice
and they gathered to pray
and to feast.

I am connected to you
across the miles and meadows,
in the wind and wishes that
swirl around me; we’re connected
and so you feel as far away
as the shortest night is from
this summer afternoon.

This is the longest day.

Peace,
Milton