By Richard Wilbur
Your voice, with clear location of June days,
Called me outside the window. You were there,
Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare
Of uncontested summer all things raise
Plainly their seeming into seamless air.
Then your love looked as simple and entire
As that picked pear you tossed me, and your face
As legible as pearskin’s fleck and trace,
Which promise always wine, by mottled fire
More fatal fleshed than ever human grace.
And your gay gift—Oh when I saw it fall
Into my hands, through all that naïve light,
It seemed as blessed with truth and new delight
As must have been the first great gift of all.
Since we only had one vehicle, Adam and I slept late and Paul worked from home. I wrote some stuff and folded some laundry (and watched the first episode of Teen Wolf on Amazon Prime, which I hope I do not come to regret, heh; I've read about it yet never seen it). All of us went to the bank and Giant -- Adam to get stuff for beach week -- and we picked up the van in the afternoon.
It rained all day, which put an end to Adam's plans to go kayaking. Instead he went bowling with friends, came home briefly for dinner, then went to a late show of Neighbors. I watched Mean Girls long distance with dementordelta, then Paul and I caught up on The 100, which hasn't finished its season yet. Last weekend we saw seven herons on the central rocky area in the Potomac River at Great Falls: