It feels colder than the reports, the promises of July burdened by skies of rain and mist. The summer has dragged I’m told, a few spits of kind soft green weather between the canopies of grey. Still, the beauty is there, if under a soggy morning’s breath you choose to step onto the earth.
Hopes willing, hearts desiring, go filling up with rising sun
It is a time between times, a period loosened from definitions, perhaps the leading pause of a comma, perhaps the jarring halt of an unexpected full stop. The wishwash of my mind has yet to settle, it balances on a sloping back above the scuttling feet of an earnest anxiousness, that hither thither bounces blindly against the way’s walls looking for delivering doorways.
But life is marked by fleeing moments and sustained by minor victories. What say another badly recorded poorly performed song tackily stuck to the running hook of four thousand photos. What say another unpolished lump of shot loosed into the pregnant airs of late summer. A summer sodden, yet full of the steady green growth of leaf and shoot, tree and root.
Across the lake another shiver of wind stirs the surface under a thin sheet of mist. Overhead roll Atlantic born clouds laden with heavy drops. Ready to fall, ready to burst and drench. Under the rolling bulkheads of a cumulus or the crest of a blanket of stratus, I pause in the month and squirm to claim a grip on the rough outline of myself.
What seems without effort is already in motion under the moment of some external force. The beat of a heart; the rise of the moon; the guarded power that drains the spool.
