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 I felt the sun loving me and I loved it back.. 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. Then I write a title for something, then leave it nothing but a date, because this day will disappear and never be seen again.

How can that happen? How can a day just slide away at dark and become a number, to be remembered only by families who birthed a baby or mourned a death on that number on the calendar?

None of that is the sun’s fault. She would like to go on perfectly and forever.