In the words of my dad,
I am a whirling
dervish,
twirling circles
to tie ends
undone by long
summer days
and trips away,
dirt tracked in,
bins of toys and
rooms
switched.

I am laundry folding,
basement purging,
packing for a mountain creek.

I write ideas on the
dry erase board,
so many ways we could
spend our time besides
the tasks of
ahead. Scrambling to
fit.

We might
paint nails,
read,
journal,
run a lemonade stand,
paint a birdhouse,
visit the zoo.

Likely we’ll do something completely
different that we’ve wanted to do or
what just sounds happy
in the
moment.

We never did find a summer routine, if there is such
a thing,
each day so different than the other,
and days will come
when I can’t late
morning shower and
breakfast will start before 9.

We’ll see a day when warmth won’t fall easy on
necks or fill
fine hair.

Then we’ll do what’s needed, I guess.
Put on a coat,
some boots?

But summer will be back.
It will be. It always
comes again. It’s not over
yet.

Now girls make bracelets to sell,
create puppet shows,
pass out medals.
They pretend they are pumping
water from African
wells with next door
neighbors.

Upstairs, they are herds of
wildebeests,
rattling the light fixture above the
dining room table dancing
ballet.

They hit balls and birdies
blow bubbles, forget they’re not
to throw mud at the tent.

I feel the end of summer, and sadness threatens,
but I choose the blessing
of days
taking shape like flocks of
birds, fluttering all
chaotic,
looking like they need to ask for
directions until they
dance across blue.

Days are whirling past,
and I can’t make them stop,
little point worrying about their
end.

So I can slow
to see,
receive the gift of
summer now.

Gifts flapping.
Gifts
landing.
Gifts flying.

Here at the fountain.
Here in
the tent. Here at
the table.
Here in
the grass.
Here in the sun.

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