I step out and suddenly notice this: summer arrives, has arrived, is arriving. Birds
grow
less than leaves although they cheep, dip, arc. A call across the tall fence from an invisible neighbor to his child is heard
right down to the secret mood in it the child
also hears. One hears in the silence that follows the great
desire for approval
and love
which summer holds aloft, all damp leeched from it, like a thing floating out on a frail but
perfect twig end. Light seeming to darken in it yet
glow. Please, it says. But not with the eager need of spring! Come what may, says summer. Smack in the middle I will stand and breathe. The
future is a super fluidity I do not
taste, no, there is no numbering
here, it is a gorgeous swelling, no emotion, as in this love is no emotion, no, also no memory - we have it all now, & all
there ever was is
us, now
- Jorie Graham
from Later In Life
a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
- Vladimir Nabokov
