I come alive in high summer
because of the light. The way
it enters my window early.

Whether I slept well that
night or not, I rise, called
by almost memories

of Celtic ancestors who 
marked the years by
turnings of equinox, solstice.

Or maybe it’s a response
to a childhood of northern
winters, darkness 

closing in on both ends
of the day. I cannot sleep
through summer light.