Rising early, for me, to see
lamby clouds frolicking across
a field of soft blue overhead,
barely 70 degrees, and, stepping
outside to retrieve and refill water
and food bowls for those who stop by
for drinks and nibbles.

I am stunned to see this pleasantness
post-solstice, late June, when
the rays of Hades often hammer us
in northland of the great Central Valley
of this golden state.

All signs point to a perfect day,
and, before I can sink into gratitude,
I wade in the mucky pool of what’s
coming—the infernal heat and days
when the famous Delta breeze
has taken herself off to other parts.

But standing in the sunshine,
empty bowls in hand, looking east
over the tops of lanky sycamores
with more decades on them than mine,
I smile into the bright.

Soak it in, something in me whispers.
This day with writers gathered
around a table, with time later
to stand in the yard, hose in hand,
watering and marveling over
what’s growing. Maybe I’ll even
pluck one of the pearls of reddening
tomatoes strung from lacy strands.

This day, perfect, truly, of many
this summer to admire and cherish—
as I’m reminding myself to do—
with you, my beloved, at the end of it.

•••

(for Dickie)