Summer arrives in a few minutes
    announced only by the estival breezes
    and the clacking of the wooden
    blinds in our room. The sun filled
    the room with light just after five
    this morning and won’t retreat
    until nearly ten.

    This is the longest day.

    Somewhere around ten I watched
    the taillights of the Wranger
    disappear around the corner
    as you left for a week of work
    in another town. We will sleep
    under the same moon, but
    not in the same bed.

    This is the longest day.

    I picked lettuce for lunch
    from the garden and I can’t let
    this beautiful afternoon pass
    without a walk on the beach.
    These are things we do
    together, you and I. Today
    I will go alone.

    The Mayans were so connected
    to the seasons and the sun
    that they knew exactly when
    the first light would break into
    their temple at Solstice
    and they gathered to pray
    and to feast.

    I am connected to you
    across the miles and meadows,
    in the wind and wishes that
    swirl around me; we’re connected
    and so you feel as far away
    as the shortest night is from
    this summer afternoon.

    This is the longest day.



    1. I came home from a two week family vacation early this month. My beloved and our daughter stayed with her sister for a couple of days due to a family crisis while I drove home from the airport to begin settling us back into our lives. Those were long days, too. Beautiful poetry, Milton.

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