|Image borrowed from ellaflor.com|
I picture myself standing barefoot in grass; not soft, but smooth like straw. The leaves of the tomatoes are fragrant from the late afternoon thunderstorm that shook the trees for fifteen minutes and then departed to wreak it's havoc eastward. Golden rays now filter onto my face, dappled from the hulking maple in the neighbours' yard. Beans groan on the trellises, twined thickly and begging to be picked... I know what's for dinner tonight.
Kids shout and throw things in the park across the street. I can't see them, but their voices carry to my yard in the humid air, and the dog sits up with ears pricked, but doesn't bark. I bend and pluck halfheartedly at some chickweed in the carrot bed, but at this point in the summer, the plants have won the battle for dominance in the veggie patch and it's little more than idle habit. The garden is a grand and wild spectacle now, with grasses that talk in the evening breezes and coneflowers in a carnival of pinks and oranges that hum with bees. As the storm eases further away, the sun strengthens to awaken the cicadas, and their thrumming songs resume in the trees as they whine to one another.
Sweet summer... you're only a breath away. I ache for your warmth and bounty. When you return, I'll welcome you with open arms and heart.