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August 31, 2018




June is space, 

languid mornings and gratitude for sunshine,

laundry lines and hopeful first flowers

and plans that seem there’ll be too much time not to make more.

At night we walk slow, in wonderment as fireflies twinkle like angels visiting our yard.


July is a swell of thick hot and action to fulfill those plans.

Now it IS summer, the late nights and popsicles and abandoned routines because we can.

It’s poison ivy and mosquito bites and “Eh, what the heck?!”

It is immense gratitude for wind.  


August is yellow jackets and the novelty of green has worn off.

Kisses of cool in the morning, long forgotten in the thick tropic of afternoon, somehow return by nightfall.

There’s a rush to enjoy and relief in the change to come.  

Long awaited births of fruit and grain now bulge and demand  

“Get it before it’s gone”.

Each birth a little death; nothing lasts forever.

Routines are welcomed like a new shirt: scratchy, crisp, clean.  


September begins to dream in color as the first brown leaves line the roads.

Just when the heat feels unbearable it breaks into

foggy mornings and teasing threats of frost,

temperature dipping with the sun.

Collecting and savoring and looking forward.

Fermenty, sweet smell of apples.  

Home comes back into focus.  

Nostalgia rides on wood smoke.  





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