She’s a poet and she knows it.

Growing up, the thing I always liked most about summer was its speed.

So slooooow.

It suited me so well then. It still does. My get up and go pretty much ups and leaves come June 1. My body craves the sound of the ocean, the bright blue sky days with sun blaring overhead and cloud conversations softly sailing by (that one looks like a man’s profile! that one, a unicorn!). The warmth of the heavy evening air. The feel of crisp, cool sheets on the bed and the trilling of birdsong out my window.

God, it’s so good.

Go ahead and grab some for yourself. Grab it with all you’ve got.

It’s a quick season — even in all of its slow splendor.

 

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The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

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