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.