Very sharp bleu cheddar cheese.
Snapping asparagus out of the ground and eating it right then and there after brushing any dirt off onto your jeans, which you'll wash over the weekend and hang on the line, another part of the grand cycle.
The way the pansies lift their faces almost immediately after you water them.
Your daughter's pink flushed cheeks after chasing a butterfly through the mud, over the grid in the garden, over lumber, broken branches, windmill and dandelions--barefoot and openhearted and reaching.
Laughing with a room of poets who allow me to not be a professor while being a professor.
Sinking into the knowledge that it isn't what is taught but what is loved between each of you in the room as you build it and break it apart and lift each other up again stronger for having spilled it.
Stopping in the middle of the dark hallway in the basement where my office is, so I can follow rather than forge ahead.
More green whispering trees calls me summer mind and a hammock to hang between two mulberry trees in the orchard near the field, which will be planted in soybean this year. My favorite because of the way the lightning bugs lift themselves out of the low, green foliage into hesitant dances that are there and then not there and then there again.