Summer begins the wait for Orion’s Belt
I have always felt it was ironic, or perhaps unfair that summer starts with the longest day then shortens with each daylight.
It is Summer that speaks in light.
Memories of glistening Beach Sand,
Then waves lapping on rocks
Clear Blue Horizon with Orange burned in its center.
We close our eyes at a day at the park,
Behind our eyelids burned red orange
We hold a blade of grass in our lips
Maybe the 4th of July
This is a memory,
It is a day that lives in Barbeque, Trumpets and Drums, a Guitar strum’s.
A Balloon has caught its string on a power line,
Fireworks clumsily play with classical music.
And it is a time for Diesel engines.
Around the field marching dust covers footsteps,
That just made patterns.
Patterns of the stars are called constellations.
Each constellation has a story, a myth,
A lesson to learn.
It is placed in the sky for us to see.
We just told many stories while we made patterns in fields.
But those were the days when summers were something different from the rest of the year.
Something different from just another season.
Seasons are what tracks the sky.
It is the entrance of stars in their grand parade over our heads.
As you stand on your grass crouched to your telescope,
Aimed to the heavens with its stories that have been told and waiting to be heard and told again.
It is here that you sip your wine, or your brandy and remember
The waves deepening Blue horizon and Orange burn.
You listen to your stories again as they run again on the patterns made from the craters on the moon
Her Dark hair run through your fingertips in a morning in Santa Fe
Like a Pattern by Georgia O’Keefe
It flows perfectly, abstract, but with direction.
And, there is that story.
Like so many stories that is now being shared with those constellations,
Your place under, with those stars.
It is a procession.
One that could be played by a
Koto, or a Guzheng
As only those instruments could describe your peace, or place or your time underneath these stars
In a way that would connect your stories to theirs as something that does not end with your story or theirs.
It is part of the cosmos.
And I will ramble on as a mind will,
And speak of Fireflies near midnight on the edges of a field in Kansas
The Top of Mt Spokane under full moon getting ready for a midnight run down through the trees at full speed for the fun of it.
Sitting with my Design Teacher at a Japanese Garden feeding Koi talking about Godzilla
My mind wanders and wonders, what my favorite story of summer is
I simply remember warmth,
Being spoken to me by light.
That is my memory of summer,
As I aim my telescope to the southern sky and see the edge of Orion’s Belt.