Summer comes at us as in a continuous story that began
before we walked into the room and goes on as we pass
through and return, still alive and pulsing and amazing.
It took the words of a famed poet to allow me to just take
the liberty of sharing line after line, without going to the
end, nor looking for redemption or gifts other than the
beauty of inhabiting these lines:
“The fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure
air — the white and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-
shaped leaves; the glassy waters of the creek, the banks,
with dense shrubbery, and the picturesque beeches and shade
and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from
recesses, breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous
silence; the occasional wasp, hornet, honey-bee or bumble
(they hover near my hands or face, yet annoy me not, not I
them, as they appear to examine, find nothing, and away
they go) — the vast space of the sky overhead so clear,
and the buzzard up there sailing his slow whirl in majestic spir-
al discs; just over the surface of the pond,”
These twelve lines, incomplete yet enough to justify the title:
A July Afternoon by the Pond, by WALT WHITMAN, from a
small delightful book, A Dream of Summer, Poems For The
Sensuous Season, selected by Robert Atwan.
This may be another warm, indolent day coming up, or not.
Matters not, it’s summer.
with love …