June in Ohio really is that line from the poem: “…then, if ever, come perfect days.”
As we get older time speeds up, but I still occasionally have that moment when you glance at the clock on a Saturday and it is only just past noon and you’re startled that it’s not near dusk.
It seemed today the light would never end. And in those moments I hate death and love my whole life and the whole landscape around me, and then embarrassment at having been given so much and having done so little.
None of that is the day’s fault. She would like to go on forever, like a perfect day.
TimothyOne 