The End of June

   
The End of June
  
The summers here are altered states of mind.
The schools are closed, except for those who dare
Attending, teaching summer school. It's rough.
For those like me, ten months are long enough!

The questions rise, on which I now reflect:
Could I, without these summers, have survived?
How many summers past?  How few are left?
And what of those, of summer's balms bereft?

The end of June is near.  The summer's breath
Has greened the streets.  The trees are feathered full,
As prairies wave from squares that pavement guards,
And little jungles sprout from sunlit yards.

I walk the streets, awash with streaming light.
The whitewashed walls and brick are bright from sun.
I see, in window-glass – the summer sky...
I think – a few more days – and then, July...

In steamy days to come, we might regret
The passing of the spring and even pine
For winter – but the kids and teachers know
That if she'd hear, they'd say, to summer, “Slow!”

The summer passes swiftly, like the year.
It's only been a day since schools have closed.
We savor summer's sweets, we taste the sun.
But even so, we dread the ten-month run.

2014 June 28th, Sat.
(last two stanzas added 29th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York