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Poem

HIGH SUMMER

End of July
The ridges, moraines,
mountains and valleys,
the meadows and farms of 
Upstate New York are a living
mosaic of yellows and tans, vermilions
and browns framed by the forests of deep
Lincoln green which, a month beyond 
solstice, mark the halcyon days of the high
tide of summer, when Great Lakes and
Finger Lakes and lakes in between all 
shimmer with color and the bees in my 
garden all hover like helicopters brimming
with cargo for constructing a base in some
foreign war zone where the color of summer
is a deep reddish-brown, staining the sands
and the streets of their cities with
bloodshed and sorrow

But my good wife and I,
bathed by the sunshine and glad 
for our lives, even in an era consistently
subject to car-bombs and lies, listen to the
murmur of a bountiful season, hear it
humming and chanting like the gathering
voices of wind-song and women singing their
devotion to the whispering rhythms of sunlight
and soil, their songs of thanksgiving
pulsating softly, like a new baby’s heart,
like the generous breezes of 
a new mother’s breath

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