June 26.
Is the real day here,
Latest sunset of the year
When it all comes gathering up
To glide into the doldrums
Today is the crest of a small wave
On some pond
Rarely visited in the brush
Especially on hot days
When it becomes the throne
For snakes and frogs
Having their day
On the crest of a small wave
This is the silent pulse
The long ebb
The onset of exhale
The practice of patience
If I could count flowers and leaves
I might try drawing the ripples
Depending on the amount of time
Getting lost in time’s subtle traps
Pulling us into drying gopher holes
Where new life goes on.
I have to step gently from today,
Steadfast in foot,
Hopping the waves
Or pointing to the shadows
The marks they leave
The same as the last go
Except changed
When I start counting.
Shaken Rain 