The summer is slipping away, you feel it in the cool of the dawn before the dew evaporates.
It is in the darkness arriving minutes sooner as each day comes to a close.
These times have been at once, strange, tragic and transformative. We are lurching towards a Fall that is unpredictable and unknown at best.
The poem below has been appearing for me in partial and complete form many times in the last few days and I want to share it before “The Summer Day” has passed.
The last two lines are ones I will be repeating to myself daily as we edge slowly forward.
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?