I’m Alive

It’s summer, and I know I’m alive.
I used to endure it, dreaming away the days, as summer has no filter,
its brazenness abashes more timid souls,
cowering from its bold and sweaty hand
away into air conditioned, cool, dim interiors.

My garden burgeons beyond my capacity to gather, but
it’s summer, and I know I’m alive.
Quart and pint glass jars filled with what I’ve processed
glimmer in jeweled rows on my kitchen shelves, despite exhaustion,
summer’s bounty and abundance to be decanted on a winter’s day.

I lay in the grass like I did as a child, transfusing sunlight
through skin into my core, just as then, because
it’s summer, and I know I’m alive.
My hairs stand at attention as ants march across me,
the grass stitching criss-cross patterns in my flesh.

Birds gather by twos, tens, twenties around feeders
I provide, a learned dependence that delights me.
Squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, and opossums find shelter here, and
it’s summer and I know I’m alive
in company with these many in my secret walled garden.

I lived for years avoiding summer’s brassy intrusion,
retreating from its sweat and buzz and bother.
Living away from home in Texas, I longed for cold, but I’ve aged,
I keenly feel my body slowing as time passes, but for now,
it’s summer, and I know I’m alive.