THE BETHESDA POOL

The intimacy of a day of rain           

in August, the end of summer,

whose astonishing presence

moved from cell to bone, retina to heart.

This is the best summer we kept saying

to each other, to everyone we knew,

moving from sink to garden to telephone

laughing about our husbands and daughters.

Our daughters calling out

through the lengthening shadows,

the dark water, the aquamarine pool:

Mom! Watch me dive! Watch me! Watch me!

Our husbands lying beside us in soft yellow pools

of light, yours writing in his diary,

mine, updating his baseball charts,

and we think, god, don't let this summer end.