The moment of noon, when the sun was high, was summer’s cherished bounty.

I sat out on the point on a picnic blanket
and watched the kites high in the sky,
swooning, tasting the light;
children held the long strings whose
wind dancers fluttered with the currents.
The seagulls over the shore
gave a raucous cry of recognition,
and tried to fly as high as the break of color.

Two women sat on a bench in Nantucket
with a thermos of cold tea.
They were old friends, and had come here often.
The water and the green
were a soothing patchwork, lulling the point
into stupor on the warm afternoon.
“Let’s not forget this,” they said,
their memories catching each other by surprise.

Emily Isaacson

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