Rapturous and green, this season wraps its arms around me like furtive claws clamoring me out into the freedom of light. This season grasps me and grapples with time and wrests me from that resting place in luxury. Love wrestles me to the ground and the ground wrestles me to be better. The air, the dirt, the wide-scoping chin of the land presses up at me for a kiss—I reject. I pursue. I run hot with envy and trail fever through the narrow passageways of the season. I run hot through this season—fireball-haired and skin savaged with sun. Somehow always, something is growing. Something is reaching towards that More that keeps funneling light through the sky. I furrow myself into a ball and roll myself through the open-crested blue of the sky. I let myself cloud like an army of water droplets. I crowd myself with hope and let my energy stretch my spine across the sand of the ocean. Across, across, across, lifting up and out, stretching ancient like wings fumbling across the sky—this is the movement of the season. Up, up, and endlessly beyond. Try and chase the season—or let it chase you—it will always move faster than the speed of light. The season of light is the season beyond speed.

Call out to that wild, uncouth solstice sun—that aching warm, strawberry moon—and let the ice-June trill of bird calls awaken this season called summer. Let it be. Let it burst. Let it grow like old grains of harvest wearily wandering toward this new day. This new day. This new season. This new reason to wake to the light. This new light to call out the flesh once white and weeded with winter winds. This new light to satisfy the hunger of souls gone thirsty for life. For the soft hands of leaves that reach out in the mid-afternoon sun. For the chirping tosses of water that stumble over one another in the clear crackles of stream-space. For the streamlined surrender of body to flesh of soul to spirit of new love to new love to hands of time that stand still in the sunlight. To the hands of time that stand still in the sunlight. To the golden wash of 5pm stray beams of light, longing for a new home on your shoulder. To summer. To light that wraps itself up in your hair, twirls out your spine and sends shivers through rivers. To rivers of ripples of rollicking laughter that roll themselves out on the grass. On the meadow. On the valley. On the wide spread hands of mountains and on the curved backs of cloudless sky-shapes.

Call out to that timeless summer—that endless barrel of a drum that beats until the sun goes down. And then even after the light has dipped, the swell of the season still splashes against the night sky. The hollow hum of fireflies still rushes toward your leaning ear. The splicing sight of stars floating in the warm night still bounces around you. Time ticks on, unrepenting, and the oligarchs of days and the regency of Tuesday, Thursday and Wednesday dissolve. No one owns these days except the sun and the strawberry moon. No one owns the season except Light itself. And Love—its fearless producer.

And Fear, you have no place here. This season is for the bright blue eyes of the sky—timeless, unrelenting, and waging a war on the fire of fear.