After seven long decades,
I finally know the summer.
It is purely a gift,
one I neither fathom nor assign:
the freedom to walk outside
without any further consideration.
The lettuce marches through its rows,
tomatoes hang from their vines
and the basil perches on its stalks.
The sun rises to a friendly angle,
and the windows are confidently open
so we can hear the song sparrow,
proclaiming for all the joy
we find again and again,
as life goes through the business
of asserting itself once more,
as if January never were.
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