That part of the year so perfect
arrives, the longest day, the nights
cooling off from summer heat.
We don’t yet know the name of a child
about to be born. We’ve not forgotten
the last hours of our mother’s life.
That old line about hope and history’s
rhyme comes to mind and it’s less the bromide
slogan some would take it be, as everything
is there in the music of language, each
utterance all the color and none that way
they say that light is comprised, composed.
We’ve come to mark the birth and death
of what we loved —and love, grieving, thankful.
Tom Driscoll Writing 