The Longest Day

Today the sun stayed longer.

It lingered on the grass,
rested on the flowers,
and painted small gold circles
on the backs of laughing things.

A snail carried its house
through the afternoon.

A worm forgot
that it lived underground.

Even the flowers
seemed to have faces.

I watched them all
and thought:

Perhaps happiness
is not an event.

Perhaps it is permission.

Permission to bloom.

Permission to crawl slowly.

Permission to lie on your back
and watch clouds
that are in no hurry
to become rain.

Children understand this.

They greet the sun
as though it has come
only for them.

They wave at butterflies,
befriend insects,
and laugh at nothing
the way streams laugh over stones.

Then we grow up.

We begin carrying clocks.

We trade wonder
for schedules,
and spend entire afternoons
without noticing
that a flower has opened.

Yet every year
there comes a day
that stays a little longer.

A day that whispers:

Look.

The world is still capable
of joy.

The sun has not forgotten you.

There is still time
to be delighted
by small things.

A petal.

A snail.

A patch of warm grass.

A child running nowhere
except toward happiness.

So tonight,
as the longest day
slowly folds itself into evening,

I make a quiet wish:

May we all keep
a small summer inside us.

A place where flowers smile,
where worms dance,
where the sun lingers,
and where our hearts,
despite everything,

remain foolish enough
to laugh with them.

May the longest day of the year bring you an abundance of light, joy, and happiness. 🌞🌼🐞