Outside the art museum overnight,
they have waited for the year’s longest day,
congregating to sing, dance,
read poetry, beat drums, summoning up
sunrise that ignites skyscrapers red,
the same sun that just hours ago
aligned itself perfectly over monoliths
at Stonehenge, as it has every first day of summer
for thousands of years.
On this most ancient of holidays,
these new urban revelers cheer it skyward.
By noon, most of them will be in bed,
missing the rest of the blazing chariot ride.

Now it’s real summer – not some artifice,
like Memorial Day, or the end of school.
A toast to Sol, then, with iced tea, lemonade,
and the other secular sacraments –
wading pools, Bermuda shorts, ice cream men.
When we measure daylight in minutes,
this is the pinnacle –
It’s all downhill from here.
We won’t realize the shortening shift
till the unwinding cricket-nights of August.


[Honorable Mention, "Summer Poem" Contest, ByLine Magazine, 2002.]

06/25/2002

Posted on 06/25/2002
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt