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Chocolate Chip Cookies, and Broccoli
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We gathered from all over town,
on Solstice eve,
atop a hill overlooking the Milwaukee River,
to celebrate the advent of summer.
It had rained all day, and began clearing
just as we spread tarps on the wet ground,
selected various percussion instruments,
maracas, tambourines, claves, bells—all sorts of
little musical spices and seasonings, and,
of course, drums—and began to play.
No one seemed to start the beat, it just
happened by itself, and everyone,
kids, parents, students, elders, various
members of the Urban Ecology Center
found playing along as natural as a heartbeat,
the clouds thinning as the groove deepened,
with some folks emphasizing the beat, and
others adding accents, with wood-block,
finger-cymbals, a turtle-rattle,
the rhythm a magic carpet taking us all for a ride,
the first adventure of summer,
as the sun set behind the tree-lined river,
and reflected off the glass of a tall building,
a little sliver of waxing moon
bestowing the lunar blessing,
the pulsation continuing, continuing, continuing,
as if we'd love nothing better than
playing right through the night, and
the next day, 'til summer was gone, and
leaves turned color, and fell, and
it started snowing, the power of the groove
keeping us warm until spring, the majestic
wheel of the seasons turning and turning,
until the next summer Solstice celebration, when
we might all remember at once, that
Darrell brought chocolate chip cookies, and
broccoli, and isn't it about time we made them
disappear?
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