Just a Diddy

This part of summer is a little quieter. Bees sketch the red edges of rabbit-sized begonias and screaming blue jays finally find somewhere else to be. 

From the adjacent pine, chickadees take turns flying to the feeder suction-cupped to the dining room window. Lately chickadees are near while I take tea on the back deck and walk dewy trails in the morning and water the summer garden.

Tiny kamikaze acorns liter the deck and fall into tea cups. Tom Petty and Perseid and Poplar leaves, too.

On the way, Joe-pye Weed, White Clover, and the petite, buttery kiss of Evening Primrose. Milkweed seed pods are gathering their cache now, so it won't be long before it all flies into September.

Words cannot render the nature we know. I assure you, prison houses are built this way.

fallen birch
opening the church
door

Leaf to creek, pine cone to ground – inevitable meetings keep the coil in season. Less and less, the waft of lilies.

And yet. More and more, Summer's ukulele strums heart-chords, and I know all the words.