John Grey

So much summer:
the oak bucket swinging,
the whirl of a dog´s coat after a pool dip.
And so much morning,
at our feet, and light so deep, unwavering,
I have to hold my breath to see.
There is no dark,
just the clip of sneakers on the sidewalk,
the bright chrome rim of wheels,
the cardinal´s ascent into the trees
like a solo reclaimed by its orchestra.
There is no mourning in such ceaseless life,
no decay when even the buds have buds.
It´s a believing-in-the-prospects day.
It´s a protection by sky and grass
and hills where kids slide down on cardboard,
parks where a soaring ball focuses the faces,
fields where balloons humor breeze,
a flock of drunken pigeons suddenly sober into flight.
We´ve dodged doom and its nightmare bedfellows.
We´ve scraped the rust from our eyes,
the rot from our hearts.
We run straight and hard like it´s a circle and easy,
as if no one can fall out of this,
not while there´s a rhythm and a pace
we all keep up with.
It´s the summer of the widening spell,
of language spliced with "Wow´"s,
of leaves and horses, eidolon and aerie,
something in us like it´s shining on us,
something let go like it´s bound to never leave,