
I offer a poetic homage for this month’s third Thursday entitled June, although I feel it is more aptly named Summer. (But who am I to challenge John Updike’s wizardry of words?)
As a child of the 50s, Updike captures the essence of my long-ago summer days. Mornings that began with my name sing-songed at the backdoor screen calling me out to play; intense kickball games in the cinder alley with the bases unevenly spaced – the corner of the Davis garage, the edge of the Bush’s stone wall, and the large trunk of their oak tree; afternoons spent biking or skating round and round the block each rotation made more challenging as we fixed metal clamp on roller skates to our scuffed white summer tennis shoes; and then the languid evenings of hide and seek or firefly hunting as we counted our treasure trove of lighting bugs captured in empty Mason jars.
From July 2007 through August 2011, I stepped back into that magical time as we hosted Summer Camp for our nephew. Most often these carefree days, filled with fishing and crafts, reading and games, took place at my parents’ cabin on Lac Courte Oreilles in northern Wisconsin. There was one summer when hospice home care made that trip impossible and we shifted our play days to Rochester where evening walks replaced boating excursions but with no less fun in the “live-long light.”
June
The sun is rich,
And gladly pays
In golden hours,
Silver days,
And long green weeks
That never end.
School’s out. The time
Is ours to spend.
The playground calls,
The ice-cream man,
And, after supper,
Kick-the-can.
The live-long light
Is like a dream,
And freckles come
Like flies to cream.
I am happy to join fellow bloggers, Bonnie at Highly Reasonable, Kat at as kat knits, and Kym at Dancing at the Edge for a monthly Gathering of Poetry.
Bibliographic credit: John Updike © 1965. Initially published by Alfred A. Knopf in A Child’s Calendar. A new edition of the same title was reissued by Holiday House © 1999 with illustrations by Trina Schart Hyman which was a 2000 Caldecott Honor Book.
This is an evocative poem; I can still recall the distinctive scent of lightning bugs in the Mason jar.
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