The First Day it Felt Like Summer

Aug 23 2011

My calendar came

with all the festive occasions

set.

Secretaries’ Day.

When the clocks turn back.

Take your children to work.

It was me who added

the first day

it felt like summer

had finally come.

Spring thaw,

the day I saw

the first green grass in months.

The patch of yellow

in the dregs of August

and thoughts of fall.

That full moon the power failed,

and we sat outside

in silver light

for hours.

When the snow

finally stayed.

When your message came,

and I couldn’t bear

erasing it.

Firsts, and lasts.

Taking me back

from memory to memory,

like stepping stones

across the river of time.

But mostly

it’s calm patches,

the flat water

that connects the rocks

all looks the same.

Crossing-off days

flipping page after page,

lazily drifting downstream.

The time

in between.

Then the end of the year

when everything shifts,

so many calendars

arriving as gifts

from retailers, and politicians.

And time

seems infinitely promising.

It happens

in deepest darkest winter,

when I can’t help but think of

all the calendars

I didn’t save.

The daily logs

of minor triumphs

now forgotten,

and harder losses

when life went on

regardless.

An old calendar

takes me back

to where the stream narrows.

Where it’s shortest to cross,

but the water’s fast

and rocks treacherous.

And where the far side

is a slippery slope

of self-pity

nostalgia

regret.

And a fresh new calendar,

with postcards of nature

and glossy white paper.

Where no dates are set

in stone.