June in Deerfield

The chill remains.  The sliding water hides the roots, hosts the gnats, and slithers past.  Bringing newness.  New should be good.  But really nothing is moving.   the hands of the clock count imaginary hours.  the beats of the heart number our passage.  Light fades and glows.  We turn around and the shadows are longer.  Or are they shorter?  Or are they shadows?  I choose the light.  The heat.  the beating fleeting moment.  seize the day.  each and every one.