The Summer you read proust

The Summer You Read Proust

P

ilip TermanP

Remember the summer you read Proust?

In the hammock tied to the apple trees

your daughters climbed, their shadows

merging with the shadows of the leaves

spilling onto those long arduous sentences,

all afternoon and into the evening—robins,

jays, the distant dog, the occasional swaying,

the way the hours rocked back and forth,

that gigantic book holding you in its woven nest—

you couldn’t get enough pages, you wished

that with every turning a thousand were added,

the words falling you into sleep, the sleep

waking you into words, the summer you read

Proust, which lasted the rest of your life.