One morning I sank into summer and summer sank into me; unexpectedly,
the trees, double thick outside my window
sent bird song heavy on the humid morning air;
it stuck to my damp skin, every bird note entered
in through all my pores.
The leaves bent and spoke a little,
but just a bit; they barely moved
in the heat, languid, they whispered faintly among themselves
and were still again.
They did not speak to me;
still:
I felt happy to be among them.
I knew there was a wall between us —
in their depth was a center I could never reach
but yearned for. So I whispered
my invitation: “Come in, come in”…
among themselves they nodded, dappled green heads assented
in slow agreement, we leaned towards each other; I thrilled to them
and felt a shiver of creation.
Oats, milk and orange;
I could eat these all year,
but this morning they were different,
into me they entered thoroughly,
their taste was now a part of me, their flavor
inside every cell.
There were no meadows near, but still I knew
myself to be a part of meadows, their dirt was in my hair,
no matter where they were I did not have to be separate from them,
their openness, their vastness, their big-heartedness
were all mine.
How could I have not seen clearly
this was the case all the time? What blindness veiled me,
shielded me from the tangible illumination of summer?
What in my soul made a wall that needed to be cracked
then breached?
I knew the way the leaf lay heavy on the branch
was equal to the way I lay
languid on my couch, still and ponderous in the heat;
the trees gathering, lulling… their rustling
shifting me between worlds
like the leaf suspended between elements,
sleep’s narcotic cave
now filled with the tangible illumination
of summer dawning inside me.
