A night of warm soaking rain, and now a thrush singing; now the long grass, pale and sodden, folding beneath the plum tree; and in the small wind, a memory of water.
I am reading Halberstam's October 1964, reading Plath's Ariel, reading Austen's Sense and Sensibility. I am spring-cleaning the porch and washing towels and planning graduation meals and thinking of Homer. I am cutting lettuce and frying sage. I am kissing my boys good-bye, I am listening to quiet, I am feeding the dog and slicing bread. I am using comma splices deliberately, I am ending sentences with prepositions because I want to. I am wondering why anyone reads this blog because I am doing nothing notable--simply moving through the hours, simply moving toward something, anything, something.
In the small wind, a memory of water. In the small wind, a whisper of summer, a scent of winter. Roses fly their brave white flags. Beetles devour the asparagus.