santos scribes

but it isn’t 

slow mornings

and extra sunlight 

early entry to the most talked about  

concerto, of the year 

The red-butted bumblebees  

are kissing raspberry flowers again 

last Sunday, I witnessed the inaugural flight  

of our beloved backyard Monarch 

The kids have popped up 

their red & gray, sleeps-4-tent 

beside the undergrown strawberries  

and the ripe breakfast radish 

It isn’t summer yet 

but it feels something like it 

It feels like cool morning garden walks 

barefoot and curious 

and warm to hot steppingstones 

come long afternoon 

It feels like just a handful of snow peas 

eaten outside, tender with dinner  

while the perfect purple chive blossoms 

sing “put us on everything!” 

It feels like writing poetry with the flowers 

and hanging soft in the hammock 

Like communing with the dead  

and listening for the unfurling of a petal, once only a seed 

It feels like the singular call of a Mourning Dove, 

knowing it’s speaking just with me  

It feels like lettuce bouquets  

and tailgate picnics 

like pinked cheeks 

and new friends  

and

and

and

June 

It feels like June 

and maybe I mustn’t change my life after all 

like Rilke & Oliver said; 

maybe I need only listen for the echo  

of my own beating heart