when it’s so un-summery, a mild
85 degrees at most, with a soft breeze,
the sky still blue, no smoke or smog
darkening it, the thermometer kindly
hovering far below the century mark.

In fact, we’ve not yet seen 100 degrees,
something I shouldn’t even think,
much less say, for fear of jinxing us,
though we can and likely will.

But for now, how to celebrate the
just-right amount of brightness
our nearest star bestows?

For some, taking to the water, finding
a patch of sand by lake or river.
For at least two people I know, perhaps
celebrating birthdays they may or may not
wish to acknowledge.

For me, on my sixty-fifth summer solstice,
I think of recent days’ delights:

holding the newest family member
in my arms as the grownups around him
ogle his perfection, later listening
to 22 lovely humans who write with me
read from our group’s latest collection—

two practically perfect debuts—

like this summer day I can see through
the window, which taps on the glass
and calls, asking if I can play, urging me
to put aside the pen, put on comfy shoes
and head outside to see what my favorite
season has to show me.