July 27, 2006

Confession

The lawn is dying. And do I really care? There is a line across the street. Gold for those who do not give a shit, green for those who do. The green is so lush this time of year, a marked contrast to the unforgiving brown of neglect. How is it though, that the weeds live on?

We are so resilient. The weeds.

Considering my love has spent a fortune on implements for whacking away the weeds and lawn, it seems like a waste to let it all die. But really, it’s still pretty. Wrap your mind around that… beauty in the gold harvest color. Yah, I know. Green is easier to love.

J. and I are planning a trip to Galiano in the next few weeks. I know that this time of year will find the wild flower fields gone, only the husks remaining… but I am sure that there will be many other things to see. The purple of the starfish… the green of the glass.

I crave this time of year all through winter… and here it is. The sky is that periwinkle blue at night that poets have been trying to translate for generations. The air has that muggy energetic feeling of trouble and delight. Yes, you… of adventure. It’s heady with pheromones. Every teenage boy is in rut right now and really, can you blame him? The short skirts and tank tops… bikinis and tanned legs that go allll the way up.

Some women read their romance books like a guilty pleasure this time of year, some women live it. Which are you?

I met K. for the first time last week… pretty woman, wonderful eyes. And her freckles were stunning… a labyrinth of connecting the dots, finding the pathways to secret gardens. My mind would wander… drift off in it’s summer way, the ice cubes in my coffee melting. Tick tock, until her voice brought me back from my freckle holidays. But what sights I saw…

I know you do it to, drift off into daydream when you should be paying attention. I do believe I have an advantage though and can pick up where I left off. The only risk is if I drift off while talking… rambling over dirt roads of cognitive thought and conjecture. My listening may get lost on those back roads… and it takes time to get back on the highway. Which I did with K.

Her smirk at the car still has me wondering. She is not a romance reader, this woman. She is a fellow adventurer.

Summer. Infinite sky. The way water beads on skin, fracturing the light. A field of gladioli, burnt orange and magenta pink. The urgent call of the morning birds and the gentle hum of the traffic on main street. The gold of our lawn in striking contrast to the neighbor’s. There are many definitions of summer…


G.

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