Early

I said, A bee came up to me, and I saw the wasp watching me from under the breezeway. Harley tottered to the mock orange. Oh good, you said sleepily, then turned over once more in the peaceful morning.

Afternoon

The boys outside on the sidewalk are counting down: 5,4,3,2,1! There isn’t any punishment coming, just a race starting on one of their first summertime days. I sort and fold clothes on the other side of my window shade, calm and happy, while the radio speaks softly in jazz.

Later

Plump yellow heirloom tomatoes wait on the kitchen counter next to a vase of palest coral peonies. The dishwasher lies steaming and open. The wide front door lets in the trilling snores of frogs and deep cool air. Today I found my father’s Cross pen, gold and heavy, in the bottom of a long-unused tote bag.

Bedtime

A tall glass of water next to the lamp. Two or three books, and damp New Yorkers. A floor fan thrums quietly by Harley’s bed.  On the air is woodsmoke and faint beats of early fireworks.

Sumer.

Sumor.

Sama.

We’ll sleep easily and well tonight, like children do always. Summerday.