If I were a bear
I would pay no never-mind
to the rolls of fat around my middle,
to the graying, un-ruly hairs upon my head
or the wiry, scratchy ones sprouting
on my legs and beneath my arms.
No, if I were a bear
I’d snuffle out a place
warm and cozy, full of all the smells
that bring me joy and comfort,
and then I’d wrap my heart in pictures
of those I cherish so that my dreams
would be nothing but sweet.
And, if I were a bear
I’d stay snuggled down
inside my little cocoon until
the green smells of Spring tickled
my nose and my winter-claws
could no longer scratch through the matted
fur on my sun-starved hide.
If I were a bear
I’d emerge, blinking
into the bright sunlight of promise
and I’d go snorting and snuffing
looking for news of all those I left behind
while I slumbered and grew sleek
and hungry for life to return.
The sun was shining at 6:30 this morning. A rarity these days, when rain and clouds, or, rainclouds have been the norm.
No rolling angry booms of thunder to shake the eaves or flashes of sheet lightning to bruise the morning sky.
It’s a clear day, with a beautiful sky, a mild breeze that just might help dry up the puddles in the road.
(Wouldn’t that be nice?)
“Summer’ is half over and we’ve barely had any. Temps in the high teens and low 20’s on those days the sun prevailed.
Still, we’ve made the best of it — we’ve camped, festivaled, ate greasy side-cart food and even
gone motor-biking (in the rain, of course). The gardens should be lush, but with no heat
they’re simply water-logged.
The chickweed, though, is healthy. Were I intrepid enough to make a salad! Perhaps if I had planted some nasturtiums?
To see the positive in this rape of our shortest, our most favorite of seasons is at times, at best, difficult.
So, it’s shorts and sandals, pretty summer dresses, hair tied up loosely in imagination.
(Sweat tickling the back of a bared neck.)
The overhead fans are on in protest against humidity and venetians clatter wildly in patio doors flung stubbornly wide.
I will have summer! I will pad naked through the darkness for a glass of cool water and then, shivering
dive back under the warmth of my down duvet only slightly grateful that here, at the end of July
we are not sweltering and sticky in our sheets.
Wind chimes play melodically in the constant breeze and lilies nod their heads in pretty unison. The colours of summer;
and the sounds, too, are present. Hammers and saws — the building of trellises and decks, roofs being re-shingled
(in fits and starts these projects take two and three times as long) — thanks, always, to the rain.
Today, though, we’ll bless the sun.
And sit outside with a cold beer in a lounge chair and kick off our sandals and turn our faces to the full glare of the sun
beaming in defiance of UV rays and the possiblility of skin cancer. We deserve this bit of warmth, this bit of
risky business. In no time at all the trees will be turning reminding us that cold, real cold, is returning.
But not yet, not this day.
This is a SUMMER day and we will revel in it we will soak it up like medicine like memory like music like poetry like love.
It will be the spark that ignites the rest of the days we have left into a glorious bonfire around which we will dance
in our barefeet and, delirious in our joy, pretend our joy will not and can not ever end.
That is the magic of summer.
Heather, my walking partner, was really, really wishing that we get some rain for her gardens today. So, this is for her:
Heather wants the rain to come;
For the ground to be drenched,
For the leaves to sing a muted
city-dwelling forest song
as water cascades and drips
and dribbles to the earth
off their green and slender backs.
For the rain to seep and soak
and expand the rich black dirt
that holds this years plantings
of leeks and onions and chard.
Not to forget the tomatoes
. . . and pumpkins and corn!
So, gather the dark clouds
like an umbrella of hope reversed
and bring on the blessing of rain.