Here in Maine, the leaves are beginning to turn, and the sunlight has become a warm, golden glow. Before I completely say goodbye to Summer, I wanted to remember how it all began, so I turned to this lovely poem by Charles Wright, published in June in The New Yorker. I love how he refers to the beginning of Summer as the "Return of the Prodigal." Isn't that just how it feels?
Charles Wright's poems always remind me of paintings...the kind that are so beautiful and rich and perfectly detailed, you feel like you could just step right in and become part of that moment in time.
(Note: My blogging program doesn't seem to like formatting for poetry, so if you'd like to see how the poem should really look, be sure to click on the title which will link you to The New Yorker.)
Return of the Prodigal
by Charles Wright
Now comes summer, water clear, clouds heavy with weeping.
Tall grasses are silver-veined.
Little puddles of sunlight collect
in low places deep in the woods.
Lupine and paintbrush stoic in ditch weed,
larch rust a smear on the mountainside.
No light on ridge line.
Zodiac pinwheels across the heavens,
bat-feint under Gemini.