the way a summer day
lingers, and the night, too
a golden thing won’t go–
some minutes are a life
of possibility,
the breeze shakes the shades
and sunbeams shift
on the floor like seagrass
underwater, ephemeral,
summer, how many ways
it could go, or stay, first
cool of evening, but still light
out, birdcall and voices
from afar, and summer fruit,
the lazy sweetness of it all,
each hour rising up
like super-heated air,
the mirage on blacktop,
contrails, first stars
and crescent moons before the sun
even sets, too full, too
full, what hour could contain this
