The rain never materialized and we are dry, dry. I am watering twice a day now, fretting over the little shrubs whose roots compete against the sucking reach of the imperial maples.
Still, this is summer, this is classic July, this is the long weekend that pivots us into the heart of our brief northern flame.
Yesterday I made only the faintest dab at housework . . . laundry, meals, dishes. Mostly what I did was garden and write. Maybe today will be another such. The housework will get done eventually, but staying in this universe feels urgent. Garden and poems tangle into the same task. I am home, and surrounded by cares, but my mind is in a Coleridge state (minus the laudanum) . . .
What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in your hand
Ah, what then?
1 comment:
I have a friend who, every year after the 4th announces summer is over. She claims everything leads up to the 4th, and everything is downhill after. She is dead serious about this and we have had more than a few discussions regarding this pronouncement. This year I am going to counter her announcement with your elegant "this is the long weekend that pivots us into the heart of our brief northern flame." Thank you!
Post a Comment