Summer
by: Martin Achatz
The two of us
one night in lawn chairs,
music coming from somewhere.
You explained
what we were hearing
was the B-side of the moon.
When I was a kid, summer lasted forever, stretched out and out before me without horizon in sight. As I got older, June, July, and August became heartbeats (maybe breaths), here and gone before I even had a chance to break out my shorts and swimsuit.
Despite being one quarter of the year, summer now is the briefest, most fragile season for me. (Being a resident of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I would nominate winter as the longest, cruelest season--hanging on like a bad case of bronchitis, coughing and coughing.) I was just in my backyard and noticed that the lilac bushes are already paling and dotted with scabs of brown.
I'm always deeply grateful for these warm months which remind me--in their bounties of colors and fragrances--how miraculous life on this planet can be. Seeding. Sprouting. Blooming. Wilting. Dying. Repeat. Over and over.
Saint Marty is one big blossom tonight.
June Sunday
by: Martin Achatz
So much green in the world
this morning, everything
else seems dull, the way
chocolate isn't all that special
the day after Halloween.
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