Time after time

There’s a pattern to these soft summer days, recognizable in reflection. We hike mountains, look out over valleys, try new recipes, visit family, swim lakes and oceans, read mysteries and poetry, and explore the mystery within poetry. Then August arrives, that  long-expected but somehow still unanticipated guest, and we gasp, “Where has the time gone?”

In the spirit of such days, I share these lines:

Six a.m.
The sun kisses
the tree tops


How you
hold the spine,
lick your thumb –
without looking –
to turn the page


Five pounds of cat
rest on my chest – without


Taps at sunset –
the loon calls
over the lake


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