top of page

summer is where i quietly shift

summer of a strong resolve.

summer of eternal peace.

summer of my life.

i missed the cue and am now reaching into the despair of a warm, 20-year, ageless summer

about subtleties. so much motion

feels like distraction; so much is cut

from the sight lines,

blurry and overlooked

i'm hungry for growing and knowing, the way grass tends itself in june. in the search for clarity,

i see a lot of interesting things, like syrup on peony buds, and teen robins at the edge of flight.

i see one million shades of light green.

i see you, walking into this room with your best smile

and heavy questions. let's dissect them one by one:

does water greet the shore?

why do flowers bloom out, and not in?

what are we meant to do with fear?

what's the lightest color?

do you realize, too, that beginnings are best met in January?

lesson: the heart of living is found when i pay attention to the root—

the way this warm air can feel, the way we cut vegetables for each other.

i already know what i want to become.

so i try to draw myself

a map in this absent july.

my hands are clean and colorful

planting seeds (disciplined commitment)

before we are able to bear the flower or fruit;

i touch the loveliness

on each branch in every

season, and that is

what we ought to cling to.

but it's true,

i've hardly grown at all,

because if i could, i'd choose

to live

where all things are soft and sleeping.

heaven is right here

in the green of this eternal summer—

this earthly hum.


bottom of page