Summer: Mary Oliver

Leaving the house,
I went out to see
The frog, for example,
in her satiny skin;
and her eggs
like a slippery veil;
and her eyes
with their golden rims;
and the pond
with its risen lilies;
and its warmed shores
dotted with pink flowers;
and the long, windless afternoons;
and the white heron
like a dropped cloud,
taking one slow step
then standing awhile then taking
another, writing
her own soft-footed poem
through the still waters.

Ok, let's just face it. I adore Mary Oliver. I only want to read Mary Oliver poetry lately. And, apparently, I only want to blog about her too.

But that's okay. I selected this poem because I just got back from one of those slow summer evening walks. I didn't see any herons, although it's certainly possible around here, and I do see them on a regular basis on one of my walks. Tonight I mostly saw cats. And a few squirrels.

I just like to think about the coming summer. It's almost here. One might say it IS here, but we've yet to have our first big summer heat, our first too-hot night. My favorite season is autumn, without a doubt. But my favorite seasonal experience is probably a warm summer evening, a quiet stroll, just observing who is out and about. It seems everyone is out when it's warm and the light is long. Cats, mice, snakes, birds -- oh, and people too.

Tonight I saw three girls playing on a rope swing, suspended from a tree branch. They were laughing like crazy and having the best time. I had to stop and watch, and smile. I could have watched them all night. We had a tire swing in our back yard. It didn't work very well; unless you were very careful, you usually ended up hitting the tree trunk. But we loved it anyway, and I remember the view once you really got going -- the trees above Mrs. Welchel's house, and the way they rustled. It was right near the grape arbor, right next to the wood pile (and later, the wood shed). I'd swing as my dad gardened, or hauled wood, or mowed the lawn. As my mom planted flowers, or sewed (and I could hear the sewing machine softly in the house).

That tree was (and is) an ancient, gnarled apple tree. The last time I was home, it was looking a little sad. It was off balance, leaning far to the left, supported by beams my dad lovingly constructed to help it stay upright. Isn't that what we do, when something we love needs some help? We prop them up.

Anyway. Summer is almost here. I have plans. I will visit friends. I will walk to the soft-serve ice cream place down the block. I will go kayaking. I will see otters. And I will take lots of evening walks. Maybe there'll be some frogs, if I'm lucky.