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SWEET SUMMER DAYS

The summer sun is nearly done
Frost will follow soon
Asters and chrysanthemums
Light up the afternoon

The dew is on long after dawn
Mornings are a haze
One swallow’s song is holding on
In these fading sweet summer days.

We flew across the ocean
Some fell into the sea
God will choose what we will lose
Though we may disagree

We come here to be mended
That we may find our way
We pray that there’s redemption
In these fading sweet summer days

Summer months comfort us
The sun comes with sustenance
We live for its lingering light

Days slip away from us
Katydids and crickets hush
We drift into lengthening night.

We were once our children
Too soon they will be us
All they ask, a simple task:
“Remember how it was”.

We hold them close, we let them go
We watch them fly away
And if we trust, they’ll come to us
In these fading sweet summer days

Stars they are innumerable
We’ll never know them all
But nature’s not immutable
Every star will fall

And one day, I’ll return to thee
And all that will remain
Is the beauty and the certainty
of these fading sweet summer days

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I played trombone in the school band.  There were  97 kids in the high school so qualifying for first chair was fairly easy.  There must have been no more than 25 of us and yet we gamely marched at half-time and made formations that couldn’t possibly have been identified since most spectators were at ground level. Sometimes it all felt like we were all pretending.  We pretended to play football, to date, drive, escape.

We wore bright red uniforms with white epaulets and tall hats with red and white plumes. We were the Bayard Reds. A huge Indian Chief (no Native Americans yet) on the bass drum.

On Memorial Day, we marched to a cemetery outside of town, a swath cut out of a corn field. We played Sousa.  Aging veterans in tight uniforms held up the flag. We stood still as my brother Jerry raised his trumpet and played taps. For a moment we  weren’t pretending. We were in Arlington, playing for the unknown.

Arlington

High school band. Memorial Day.

Country cemetery. Marched all the way.

We stood in formation, took off our caps.

Stood with the nation, we played taps

Year before Kennedy, year before King.

Last year I cared about anything.

But for that moment, we were one.

Honoring soldiers

At Arlington.

Notes drifted across the plains.

Swallows signaled oncoming rain.

Station wagons, pickup trucks

Rescued us then turned to rust

We put on new uniforms

Crisp, creased. Tattered, well-worn

Some forget where we come from

Some come to rest

In Arlington

When he was twelve, took my only son

Lost ourselves in the Smithsonian

Then Abraham, above the Mall.

Then raised our hands, touched the wall.

Headstone horizon, eternal flame

Unknown lie with familiar names

Sacrificed daughters and sons

So I could cry

At Arlington.