Creeping up on the summer solstice makes me a bit sad. A month from now the evenings will be getting noticeably shorter again, and the jasmine will be fading. Despite all the tasty fruit it brings, summer always seems to me a long decline. I know there are autumn's color and longer nights of stars ahead, but I'll miss the freshness of spring and the new growth. It might be different if I lived in a place with summer rains, but here there is so much dessication as the season proceeds. Brown fields have pleasures of their own to give, but to me they don't compare with the delights of green spring.
by Anne Sexton
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.