I want to go back . . .
I want to think about
the way summer is about to explode
and the first weekend
of the unofficial start of the season takes place
and life was still young enough
to be wild.

It is coming to the time
when sunlight is visible at an earlier hour.
The sunrise is a pretty thing to see in the morning.
And I know that life is still happening.
I know that times can be hard
and there are ideas and thoughts
and feelings
which are less than easy to deal with.

I know this, firsthand.

There are times
when we find ourselves
on colder than usual mornings
and the summer is supposedly
on its way.

But where’s the sun?

There is something about your smile,
Intoxicating, yes,
Of course I agree.
But more, there is something mesmerizing,
or maybe revitalizing is a better word,
or even reassuring
is a word that make sense to me
because after all, what’s in a smile?
The answer:
More than you know
But please, allow me to explain.

Yes,
I want to walk and run
and breathe in the air
and play or live in the moment.
Wait, no.
I want to live for the moment
and be about this,
instead of simply
“talking” about it.

“Let’s just do it!”
Right?

I know that the world is a good place.
And I know that life could be better.
I know that not all things work out
the way we’d like them to.
But . . .
I also know that deep down, somehow,
there has to be a reason
and some kind of passion
or purpose for all that’s gone on.

There has to be desire and the drive “for more,”
and there has to be a calling,
as if to be something
or maybe there’s someone out there,
as if to say,
someone is calling out without a voice
and saying “Hey you . . . it’s me,
and I’ve been waiting for you,
for all of my life and longer.”

I remember him now with the wind in his hair,
the sun was high, like it is on a mid-August day,
and the winds were warm,
or warm as ever because of the warmth in my heart.

The sky was clear,
and I was nothing more than a little boy,
wading in the water
and knee-deep in the bays of my youth.

I remember this:
fishing with my Father,
The Old Man.
What a story this is to me . . .

There is nothing like a Mother’s love
There is nothing as strong or as ongoing,
or unconditional, or so it should be,
at least in the right life
or during the right circumstances
of course.

Mother, as in all directing,
as in always connecting,
always thinking
and always looking to care of say, me, for example,
the young one, or should I say
the youngest son who, of course,
was different from the rest of the pack.