The Late Summer Day

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I had many things planned for this precious life,

but I’ve since learned that planning is a binding,

a tether, a grip that, when taken up in earnest,

keeps us from freely roaming all of the grand

possibilities. Like old mountains, and cricketed

fields, and long, edgy shorelines.

Now, not knowing is my practice. It works okay.

On most days, and some nights. The dark-skied ones.

I think that mystery is the only medicine for the

wild soul that nags at the feet restlessly;

predictability and sameness pain its true nature.

This, I understand.

Summer is going somewhere, but not in any way

that we can imagine. I could tell you things:

A battered white moth will lose itself to

the chill surrounding a porch light.

The sunflowers will hang their heavy

finch-beaded heads until their bodies snap

and they lie there, welcoming the molds.

The bird voice that was your awakening for

four straight months is gone, but you will be

confounded as to why you overslept.

And, the bear, the bear cares about nothing

more than its belly. You’ll come around a

sharp curve in the trail and, startled by

form and scent, halt. The bear’s head is in

thick duff and acorns. You don’t matter.

Keep walking.

But that won’t be it. It will be something else

entirely; more bold and more subtle.

Yes.

I want the next day to be that for me.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in  "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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