I am indeed grateful for the balm of warm sun on my skin.
Grateful for the liberty of bare feet on the lawn and on the path,
where the old dog lies soaking up the heat like a sponge,
and where my boys pluck daisies for no reason at all.
Under another clear sky like vintage bleached denim,
another cloudless day without deadlines,
and with no urgent place to rush to.
I am indeed grateful for the salve of a summer,
that seems without end even though it’s not yet June.
Losing track of days and losing count of when this stop began,
losing sight of what it was like before,
and losing the memory of the last rain.
I am indeed grateful for the sweet herbal medicine of green,
the shade of the Goat Willows and their tumbling catkins,
that catch on the wipers of the car I’m so rarely driving.
I am indeed grateful for the healing of staying put,
for aimless wandering as a panacea for always wondering,
and the longing for the longest days and shortest nights,
of this country’s very best time.
Outside these sheltered five hundred acres,
under these same scorching skies,
it’s different.
The changes that seemed so nearly here,
and whose time was so inevitably now,
Are still so, so far away.
I am indeed grateful for the balm of warm sun on my skin.
