fugitive summer

The summer slipped through my open-hearted fingers, 

but I learned to let go,

and I learned to love the world again.

Today was familiar.

Today was new.

I ate two tacos before ten thirty in the morning,

I seriously considered joining the medieval club on campus,

I sat on my stoop and listened to the thunderstorm and read Thoreau and waited for people to walk by smiling at me on the stoop listening to the thunderstorm and reading Thoreau.

I ate with the family I love,

then drove up the canyon in the rain,

lovelily alone.

(The leaves haven't yet started smelling earthy.)

I talked politics with girls who care about the world and care about others

and I was grateful again that there are still places in this world where people want to sit on park benches, around tables, on living room floors, to talk about politics and morals and lofty ideals and the best within people.

And then under a monster tree we drank our hot chocolate.

Every day seems thus an exercise in gratitude,

when with blessings sweet my life bubbles over the brim.