I wondered if there were going to be
any more summers.
Remember the laundry on the line—
shirts hanging in a row,
the days of the week
made visible in the wind,
and no one counting.
Summer stretched out—
long days an abundance, more plums
on the tree than one could pick.
How solid, too, the garden seemed—
trees and hedges stone-sturdy
as the lantern by the path,
and the brick house a constant
where each morning,
rolling up the shade, I felt the pull
lessening, heard the reassurance
of the ratchet-snap
as another day sprawled
before me in the heat. No detours then,
just the right-of-way through
fields without fences—plenty of time
to wander, to daydream
without a thought for later,
for pulling down the shade
that bracketed our waking hours.