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. Today it seemed the light would never end. And on such days I hate death and love my whole life and the whole landscape around me, and I’m embarrassed at having been given so much and having done so little.
None of that is the sun’s fault. She would like to go on perfectly and forever.