A blue firmament stretches across
these gentle, green, rolling hills.
A few clouds float by, fleetingly so.
I stroll through the streets,
sensing the tingle of nostalgia
mingling with tiny droplets of sweat
on my skin. It’s summer.
It’s finally summer.
I come by a front yard
beaming with flowers and fruits,
peaking with fullness.
An elderly couple is at work.
Mid-season, with worn clothes and effortlessly so,
she picks the cherries
and he holds the latter.
And so the bucket fills and fills.
There’s fragility around
yet also a wrinkly, scrawny commitment
to these cherries
in the summertime.
As I walk on
toward my home,
toward the one who sways and stays with me,
I long for this:
an unpretentious mutuality
in filling and filling the bucket
until it can hold no more
and flows over and down
and abundantly so,
every season anew.